. Punch . t, As of a cat in love. I heard the sounds of passion and of fight, The caterwauling chimes,That fill each attic chamber in the night, Where some starved poet rhymes. My night-capped head in the cool midnight air Sought vainly some repose;The echo of perpetual squalls rose there,— Prom the new cistern rose. Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer Descend, you green-eyed fright!I hate, while thus you screech, and spit, andswear,The cat-infested night! Justification. Mr. Smith OBrien writes : I was appliedto by somebody for subscriptions in aid of certainforeigners. I answered
. Punch . t, As of a cat in love. I heard the sounds of passion and of fight, The caterwauling chimes,That fill each attic chamber in the night, Where some starved poet rhymes. My night-capped head in the cool midnight air Sought vainly some repose;The echo of perpetual squalls rose there,— Prom the new cistern rose. Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer Descend, you green-eyed fright!I hate, while thus you screech, and spit, andswear,The cat-infested night! Justification. Mr. Smith OBrien writes : I was appliedto by somebody for subscriptions in aid of certainforeigners. I answered that appeal by sending tosomebody else a contribution for certain Irish-men. It is an Irish answer, and yet notmore Irish than the conduct of our own Queenwho was assailed by the Irish in America withevery kind of abuse, and answered that abuseby sending a pardon to a silly old Irishman who,it was idly thought, would live at home grate-fully and quietly. 186 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [May 4, Adolphus. il Have a Cigar, Fred? No! Frederick. Well, 1 used to smoke a good deal; but I was rather sweet upon Julia Weston,you know, last season, and fact is, she made me give it up J POTTERS LAST PUSH. Ho! strike for justice, one and aD, Ye downtrod worms of toil,Or still your neck the yoke must gall, And still your blood must boilTo fat and feed your tyrants greed, And swell your tyrants spoil! Workmen were worth their hire of yore, In the worlds earliest stage;They must be worth a great deal more In this enlightened age;But all we ask for nine hours task, Is only ten hours wage. Lucas and Kelk by hourly pay Our grievance try to burke—Why scores, if such a scheme gets way, Our Unions will ve selfish knaves and grovelling slaves, Who d stoop to twelve hours work ! What earnest working-man unmovedThese slaves could see and hear, At work, while we our minds improvedIn tap or club-room near ? Our pipes past doubt it would put out,And bitter make our beer. Each hamm
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1840, booksubjectenglishwitandhumor
