O Reveal, thou fay-like stranger,
Why this lonely path you seek;
Every step is fraught with danger
Unto one so fair and meek.
Where are they that should protect thee
In this darkling hour of doubt?
Love could never thus neglect thee!—
Does your mother know you’re out?
Why so pensive, Peri-maiden?
Pearly tears bedim thine eyes!
Sure thine heart is overladen,
When each breath is fraught with sighs.
Say, hath care life’s heaven clouded,
Which hope’s stars were wont to spangle?
What hath all thy gladness shrouded?—
Has your mother sold her mangle?
* * * * *
A PUBLIC CONVENIENCE.
We are requested to state, by the Marquis of W——, that, for the convenience of the public, he has put down one of his carriages, and given orders to Pearce, of Long-acre, for the construction of an easy and elegant stretcher.
* * * * *
CANDIDATES UNDER DIFFERENT PHASES
CANVASSING. What a love
of a child
THE DEPUTATION. If you think me worthy
THE SUCCESSFUL CANDIDATE. Constituents—rascals
THE HUSTINGS. Don’t mention it I beg
THE PUBLIC DINNER. The proudest moment of my life]
* * * * *
PUNCH begs most solemnly to assure his friends and the artists in general, that should the violent cold with which he has been from time immemorial afflicted, and which, although it has caused his voice to appear like an infant Lablache screaming through horse-hair and thistles, yet has not very materially affected him otherwise—should it not deprive him of existence—please Gog and Magog, he will, next season, visit every exhibition of modern art as soon as the pictures are hung; and further, that he will most unequivocally be down with his coup de baton upon every unfortunate nob requiring his peculiar attention.
That he independently rejects the principles upon which these matters are generally conducted, he trusts this will be taken as an assurance: should the handsomest likeness-taker gratuitously offer to paint PUNCH’S portrait in any of the most favourite and fashionable styles, from the purest production of the general mourning school—and all performed by scissars—to the exquisitely gay works of the President of the Royal Academy, even though his Presidentship offer to do the nose with real carmine, and throw Judy and the little one into the back-ground, PUNCH would not give him a single eulogistic syllable unmerited. A word to the landscape and other perpetrators: none of your little bits for PUNCH—none