Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, Complete eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 1,359 pages of information about Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, Complete.


  The horrors of an omnibus,
    Indeed, I’ve cause to curse;
  And if I ride in one again,
    I hope ’twill be my hearse. 
  If you a journey have to go,
    And they make no delay,
  ’Tis ten to one you’re serv’d like curds,
    They spill you on the WHEY.

  A short time since my wife and I
    A short call had to make,
  And giving me a kiss, she said—­
    “A buss you’d better take!”
  We journey’d on—­two lively cads,
    Were for our custom triers;
  And in a twinkling we were fix’d
    Fast by this pair of pliers!

  My wife’s arm I had lock’d in mine,
    But soon they forced her from it;
  And she was lugg’d into the Sun,
    And I into the Comet
  Jamm’d to a jelly, there I sat,
    Each one against me pushing;
  And my poor gouty legs seem’d made
    For each one’s pins—­a cushion!

  My wife some time had gone before: 
    I urged the jarvey’s speed,
  When all at once the bus set off
    At fearful pace, indeed! 
  I ask’d the coachee what caused this? 
    When thus his story ran:—­
  “Vy, a man shied at an oss, and so
    An oss shied at a man!”

  Oh, fearful crash! oh, fearful smash! 
    At such a rate we run,
  That presently the Comet came
    In contact with the Sun
  At that sad time each body felt,
    As parting with its soul,
  We were, indeed, a little whirl’d,
    And shook from pole to pole!

* * * * *

Dunn, the miller of Wimbledon, has recently given his infant the Christian name of Cardigan.  If there is truth in the adage of “give a dog a bad name and hang him,” the poor child has little else in perspective than the gallows.

* * * * *



  Why, y-e-s—­’twas rather late last night;
    In fact, past six this morning. 
  My rascal valet, in a fright,
    Awoke, and gave me warning. 
  But what of that?—­I’m very young. 
    And you’ve “been in the Oven,” or,
  Like me, you’re wrong’d by rumour’s tongue,
    So—­pray don’t tell the Governor.[1]

  I dined a quarter after seven,
    With Dashall of the Lancers;
  Went to the opera at eleven,
    To see the ballet-dancers. 
  From thence I saunter’d to the club—­
    Fortune to me’s a sloven—­or,
  I surely must have won one rub,
    But—­mind! don’t tell the Governor!

  I went to Ascot t’other day,
    Drove Kitty in a tandem;
  Upset it ’gainst a brewer’s dray—­
    I’d dined, so drove at random. 
  I betted high—­an “outside” won—­
    I’d swear its hoofs were cloven, or
  It ne’er the favourite horse had done,
    But—­don’t you tell the Governor.

Project Gutenberg
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, Complete from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
Follow Us on Facebook