Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103, September 10, 1892 by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103, September 10, 1892
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 103.
September 10, 1892.
WHY I DON'T WRITE PLAYS.
(_FROM THE COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF A NOVELIST._)
Because it is so much pleasanter to read one's work than to hear it on
the Stage.
Because Publishers are far more amiable to deal with than
Actor-Managers.
Because "behind the scenes" is such a disappointing place--except in
Novels.
Because why waste three weeks on writing a Play, when it takes only
three years to compose a Novel?
Because Critics who send articles to Magazines inviting one to
contribute to the Stage, have no right to dictate to us.
Because a fairly successful Novel means five hundred pounds, and a
fairly successful Play yields as many thousands--why be influenced by
mercenary motives?
Because all Novelists hire their pens in advance for years, and have
no time left for outside labour.
And last, and (perhaps) not least, Why don't I send in a Play? Because
I _have_ tried to write _one_, and find I can't quite manage it!
* * * * *
According to recent accounts, the attitude of the Salvation Army in
Canada may be fairly described as "Revolting."
* * * * *
[Illustration: EQUIVOCAL.
_Rising Young Physician_ (_who cured so many Patients in last year's
Epidemic_). "NOT MUCH CHANCE OF MORE INFLUENZA IN ENGLAND _THIS_
WINTER, I FANCY!"
_His Wife._ "LET US HOPE FOR THE BEST, DEAREST!"]
* * * * *
A DIARY OF THE DEAD SEASON.
(_SUGGESTED BY THE CONTENTS BILLS._)
_Monday._--First appearance of "the Epidemic." Good bold line with
reference to Russia. Not of sufficient importance to head the Bill,
but still distinctly taking.
_Tuesday._--Quite a feature. Centre of the Bill with sub-lines of
"Horrible Disclosures," and "Painful Scenes." Becoming a boom. To be
further developed to-morrow.
_Wednesday._--Bill all "Epidemic." Even Cricket sacrificed to make
room for it. "News from Abroad." "Horrors at Hamburg." No idea it
would turn out so well. A perfect treasure-trove at this quiet season
of the year!
_Thursday._--Nothing but "Epidemic"--"Arrival in
England"--"Precautions Everywhere." Let the boom go! It feeds itself!
Nearly as good as a foreign war!
_Friday._--Still "the Epidemic," but requires strengthening.
"Spreading in the Provinces," but still, not like it was. Falling
flat.
_Saturday._--A good sensational Murder! The very thing for the
Contents Bills. Exit "the Epidemic," until again wanted.
* * * * *
SONGS OF SOCIETY;
I.--INTRODUCTORY. TO MY LYRE.
["Smoothly written _vers de Societe_, where a _boudoir_
decorum is, or ought always to be, preserved; where sentiment
never surges into passion, and where humour never overflows
into boisterous merriment."--_Frederick Locker's Preface to
"Lyra Elegantiarum."_]
[Illustration]
Dear Lyre, your duty now you know!
If one would sing with grace and glow
Songs of Society,
One must not dream of fire, or length,
Or vivid touch, or virile strength,
Or great variety.
Among the Muses of Mayfair
A Bacchanal with unbound hair,
And loosened girdle,
Would be as purely out of place
As Atalanta in a race
O'er hedge or hurdle:
Our Muse, dear Lyra, must be trim,
Must not indulge in vagrant whim,
Of voice or vesture.
Boudoir decorum will allow
No gleaming eye, no glowing brow,
No ardent gesture.
Society, which is our theme,
Is like a well-conducted stream
Which calmly ripples.
We sing the World where no one feels
Too pungently, or hates, or steals,
Or loves, or tipples.
And should you hint that down below
The subtle siren all men know
Is hiding _her_ face,
Our answer is: "That may be true,
But boudoir bards have nought to do
Save with the surface."
And therefore, though Society feel
The Proletariat's heavy heel
Its kibe approaching,
Some luxuries yet are left to sing,
The Opera-Box, the Row, the Ring,
And Golf, and Coaching.
Not e'en the Socialistic scare
The dandyish and the debonair
Has quite demolished;
Whilst Privilege hath still a purse,
There's yet a chance for flowing verse,
And periods polished.
If IBSEN, BELLAMY, and GEORGE,
Raise not the boudoir critic's gorge
Beyond all bearing,
Light lyrics may she not endure,
On social ills above her cure,
Below her caring?
Muse, with Society we may toy
Without impassioned grief or joy,
Or boisterous merriment;
May sing of Sorrow with a smile;
At least, it may be worth our while
To try the experiment.
* * * * *
QUITE THE TREBLE GLOUCESTER CHEESE!--The Three Quires' Festival this
week. Do the Three Quires appear in the Cathedral? If so, as each
quire means twenty-four sheets, there'll he quite a "Surplice Stock."
* * * * *
CONTRIBUTION BY OUR OWN "MULEY HASSAN."--_Puzzle_--To find "three
Single Gentlemen rolled into one?" _Answer_--Sir EUAN SMITH.
_Explanation_--Sir, You, an' SMITH. [_Exit_ MULEY HASSAN _going to
Bray._
* * * * *
Why ought a Quack's attendance on a patient to be gratis?--Because he
is No-Fee-sician.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "LA-BOUCHE-RE(-NARD) ET LES RAISINS."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A MERE PREJUDICE.
_Tourist._ "I SEE YOU EMPLOY A GOOD MANY WOMEN ABOUT HERE, FARMER."
_Farmer._ "HAVE TO DO, HARVEST-TIME, SIR; BUT FOR MYSELF I MUCH PREFER
MANUAL LABOUR!"]
* * * * *
MORE REASONS FOR STOPPING IN TOWN.
_Commodore Buncombe._ Because I know those infernal Tentonners, and
---- Chartreuse jaune only makes me worse.
_William Sikes._ Because of the gross incompetence of my Counsel,
and the ridiculous adverse prepossessions of the Jury at my recent
appearance in public at the C.C.C.
_McStinger._ Because there's bonny braw air on the braes of Hampstead,
and it costs but a bawbee to get intil it.
_Fitz-Fluke._ Because, since that awkward affair at the Roulette Club,
my country invitations haven't come in.
_Capel Courtney._ Because those beastly bucket-shops have collared all
our business.
_Bumpshus, M.P._ Because the Lords of the Treasury (shabby crew
of place-hunters) declined to adopt my suggestion, and to place a
trooper, thoroughly well found, victualled, and overhauled, at the
disposal of any Members of the Lower House whose profound sense of
duty, and of the importance of the Imperial Federation idea, impelled
them to take a six-months' trip round the world at the nation's
expense.
_Theodore John Hook Straight._ Because of the old trouble--"got a
complaint in the chest."
* * * * *
[Illustration: PHILLIPOPOLIS.
_Toper Major_ (_over their third bottle of a Grand Vin_). I shay,
ol' f'ler, neksh year thinksh'll go see ex'bishun at Ph-Phipp--at
Philup-popple--
_Toper Minor._ I know, ol'f'ler. You mean Philipoppoppo--poppo--
_Toper Major._ Thatsh it--shame place. Have 'nother bo'l!
[_They drink._]
* * * * *
"THE SPEECH OF MONKEYS."--Professor R.L. GARNER, who is a great
hand at "getting his Monkey up" (he was naturally a bit annoyed at
being, quite recently, accidentally prevented from giving his Monkey
lecture), is about to commence operations by adapting the old song
of "_Let us be Happy Together_" to Monkey Language, when it will
re-appear as "_Let us be Apey Together_." It will be first given at
Monkey Island on Thames.
* * * * *
CRICKETERS WHO OUGHT TO BE GOOD HANDS AT PLAYING A TIE.--"The Eleven
of Notts."
* * * * *
UN-BROCKEN VOWS.
Walpurgis Brocken Night at Crystal Palace last Thursday--Grand!
Jupiter Pluvius suspended buckets, and celestial water-works rested
awhile to make way for Terrestrial Fire-works. "Todgers's can do it
when it likes," as all Martin-Chuzzlewiters know, and BROCK can do it
too when _he_ likes. _A propos_ of DICKENS' quotation above, it is
on record that _Mr. Pickwick_ was once addressed as "Old Fireworks."
Where? When? and How? _Mr. Pickwick_, we are led to infer by the
commentary thereon, somewhat objected to the term, unless our
Pickwickian memory fail us--which is not improbable--but Mr. BROCK
would appropriate it to himself with pleasure, and be "'proud o' the
title' as the Living Skeleton said." Despite wind and weather, and
_contretemps_ generally, BROCK has never brocken faith with the
public. "_Facta non verba_" is his motto: and "_Facta_" means (here)
Fire-works.
* * * * *
"GREAT BRITAIN AND THE GILBERT ISLANDS."--Captain DAVIS of H.M. Screw
Cruiser _Royalist_, on May 27, formally annexed "The Gilbert Islands."
Where was SULLIVAN? Or is it that Sir ARTHUR, having been annexed as a
Knight, was unable to interfere? Will D'OYLY CARTE explain?
* * * * *
THE MENAGERIE RACE.
SCENE--_The terrace in front of Hauberk Hall, which the_
LARKSPURS _have taken for the Summer_. TIME--_An August
afternoon. Miss STELLA LARKSPUR--a young lady with great
energy and a talent for organisation--has insisted upon all
the Guests taking part in a Menagerie Race._
_The Rev. Ninian Headnote, the Local Curate_ (_to Mr. PLUMLEY
DUFF--after uneasily regarding Miss STELLA, as she shakes up some
pieces of folded paper in a hat_). Can you give me any idea of the
precise nature of this amusement--er--nothing resembling a gambling
transaction, I suppose?--or I really--
_Mr. Plumley Duff_. Well, I'm given to understand that we shall each
be expected to take an animal of some sort, and drive it along with a
string tied to its leg. Sounds childish--to _me_.
_The Curate_ (_relieved_). Oh, exactly, I see. Most entertaining,
I'm sure! (_He coos._) What wonderful ingenuity one sees in devising
ever-fresh pastimes, do we not? Indeed, yes!
_Miss Stella_. There, I've shuffled all the animals now. (_Presenting
the hat_.) Mr. HEADNOTE, will you draw first?
_The Curate_. Oh, really. Am I to take one of these? Charmed! (_He
draws._) Now I wonder what my fate--(_Opening the paper_.) The Monkey!
(_His face falls._) _Is_ there a Monkey here? _Dear_ me, how _very_
interesting!
_Dick Gatling_ (_of H.M. Gunboat "Weasel"_). Brought him over my
last cruise from Colombo. No end of a jolly little beast--bites like
the--like _blazes_, you know!
_Miss Stella_ (_to her Cousin_). Now, DICK, I won't have you taking
away poor Jacko's character like that. He's only bitten BINNS--and,
well, there _was_ the gardener's boy--but I'm sure he _teased_ him.
_You_ won't tease him, will you, Mr. HEADNOTE?
_The Curate_. I--I shouldn't dream of it, Miss STELLA,--on the
contrary, I--(_To himself._) Was it quite discreet to let myself
be drawn into this? Shall I not risk lowering my office by publicly
associating myself with a--a Monkey? I feel certain the Vicar would
disapprove strongly.
_Dick_ (_to Colonel KEMPTON_). Drawn _your_ animal yet, Sir?
_The Colonel_ (_heatedly_). Yes, I have--and I wish I'd kept out of
this infernal tomfoolery. Why the mischief don't they leave a man in
peace and quietness on a hot afternoon like this? Here am I, routed
out of a comfortable seat to go and drive a confounded White Rabbit,
Sir! Idiotic, _I_ call it!
_The Curate_. Pardon me, Colonel KEMPTON; but if you object to the
Rabbit, I would not at all mind undertaking it myself--and you could
take my Monkey--
_The Colonel_. Thanks--but I won't deprive you. A Rabbit is quite
responsibility enough for me!
_The Curate_ (_to himself, disappointed_). He's afraid of a poor
harmless Monkey--and he an Army man, too! But I _don't_ see why _I_--
_Miss Gussie Grissell_. Oh, Mr. HEADNOTE, _isn't_ it ridiculous!
They've given me a Kitten! It makes me feel too absurdly young!
_The Curate_ (_eagerly_). If you would prefer a--a more appropriate
animal, there's a Monkey, which I am sure--(_To himself, as Miss
G. turns away indignantly_). This Monkey doesn't seem very
popular--there must be _someone_ here who--I'll try the American
Lady--they are generally eccentric. (_To Mrs. HEBER K. BANGS._) I hope
Fortune has been kind to you, Mrs. BANGS?
_Mrs. Bangs_. Well, I don't know; there _are_ quadrupeds that can trot
faster over the measured mile than a Tortoise, and that's _my_ animal.
_The Curate_ (_with sympathy_). Dear me! That is a trial, indeed, for
you! But if you would prefer something rather more exciting, I should
be most happy, I'm sure, to exchange my Monkey--
_Dick Gatling_ (_bustling up_). Hallo, what's that? No, no, Mrs.
BANGS--be true to your Tortoise. I tell you he's going to romp
in--AEsop's tip, don't you know? I've backed you to win or a place. I
say, what do you think _I_'ve drawn--the Mutton! Just my luck!
_The Curate_. DICK, just come this way a moment--I've a proposition
to make; it's occurred to me that the Monkey would feel more--more at
home with you, and, in short, I--
_Mr. Plumley Duff_ (_plaintively, to Miss CYNTHIA CHAFFERS_). I
shouldn't have minded any other animal--but to be paired off with a
Goose!
_Miss Chaffers_ (_consolingly_). You're better off than _I_ am, at all
events--I've got a Puppy!
_Mr. Duff_. Have you? (_After a pause--sentimentally_.) Happy Puppy!
_Miss C._ He'll be anything but a happy Puppy if he doesn't win.
_Mr. Duff_. Oh, but he's sure to. I know I would, if _I_ was your
Puppy!
_Miss C._ I'm not so sure of that. Don't they lodge objections, or
something, for boring?
_Mr. Fanshawe_. Can anybody inform me whether I'm expected to go and
catch my Peacock? Because I'll be hanged if--
_The Curate_. Oh, Miss STELLA, it's all right--Mr. GATLING thinks
that it would be better if he undertook the Monkey himself; so we've
arranged to--
_Miss Stella_. Oh, nonsense, DICK! I can't have you taking advantage
of Mr. HEADNOTE's good-nature like that. What's the use of drawing
lots at all if you don't keep to them? Of _course_ Mr. HEADNOTE will
keep the Monkey.
[_The unfortunate Curate accepts his lot with Christian
resignation_.
_Dick_. Well, _that's_ settled--but I say, STELLA, where's my Mutton's
moorings--and what's to be the course?
_Stella_. The course is straight up the Avenue from the Lodge to the
House, and I've told them to get all the beasts down there ready for
us; so we'd better go at once.
THE START.
_The Competitors_. STELLA, my dear, _mustn't_ Miss GRISSELL tell her
kitten not to claw my Tortoise's head every time he pokes his poor
nose out? It isn't fair, and it's damping all his enthusiasm!... Now,
Colonel KEMPTON, it isn't the Puppy's fault--you _know_ your Rabbit
began it!... Hi, STELLA, hold on a bit, my Mutton wants to lie down.
Mayn't I kick it up!... DUFF, old chap, your Goose is dragging her
anchor again, back her engines a bit, or there'll be a foul.... Miss
STELLA, I--I really _don't_ think this Monkey is quite well--his teeth
are chattering in such a _very_.... All right, _padre_, only his nasty
temper--jerk the beggar's chain. More than _that_!
_Chorus of Spectators at Lodge Gates_. My word, I wonder what next the
gentry'll be up to, I dew. Ain't Miss STELLA orderin' of 'en about!
Now she's started 'en. They ain't not allowed to go 'ittin of 'en--got
to go just wheeriver the animiles want. Lor, the guse is takin _his_
genlm'n in among the treeses! Well, if iver I did! That theer tartus
gits along, don't he? Passon don't seem com'fable along o' that
monkey. I'll back the young sailor gent--keeps that sheep wunnerful
stiddy, he do. There's the hold peacock puttin' on a bust now. Well,
well, these be fine doin's for 'Auberk 'All, and no mistake. Make old
Sir HALBERD stare if he was 'ere, &c., &c.
_The Colonel_ (_wrathfully to his Rabbit, which will do nothing but
run round and round him_). Stop that, will you, you little fool. Do
you want to trip me up! Of all the dashed nonsense I ever--!
_Mrs. Bangs_. My! Colonel, you do seem to have got hold of a pretty
insubordinate kind of a Rabbit, too!
_The Colonel_ (_looking round_). Well, you aren't getting much pace
out of your Tortoise either, if it comes to that!
_Mrs. Bangs_. He puts in most of his time in stoppages for rest
and refreshment. I'm beginning to believe that old fable's a fraud.
Anyway, it's my opinion this Tortoise isn't going to beat any
hare--unless it's a jugged one.
_Dick Gatling_ (_in front, as his Sheep halts to crop the turf in
a leisurely manner_). We've not pulled up--only lying-to to take in
supplies. We're going ahead directly. There, what did I tell you! Now
she's tacking!
_The Curate_ (_in the rear_). Poo' little Jacko, then--there, there,
quietly now! Miss STELLA, what does it mean when it gibbers like that?
(_Sotto voce._) I wonder, if I let go the chain--
_Mr. Duff_ (_hauling his Goose towards Miss CHAFFERS_). It's no
use--_I_ can't keep this beast from bolting off the course!
_Miss C._ Do keep it away from my Puppy, at all events. I _know_ it
will peck him, and he's perfectly happy licking my shoe--he's found
out there's sugar-candy in the varnish.
_Mr. Duff_ (_solemnly_). Yes, but I _say_, you know--that's all very
well, but it's not making him _race_, is it? Now I _am_ getting some
running out of my Goose.
_Miss C._ Rather in-and-out-running, isn't it? (_Cries of distress
from the rear._) But what is the matter now? That poor dear Curate
again!
_The Curate_ (_in agony_). Here, I say, somebody! _do_ help me! Miss
STELLA, do speak to your monkey, please! It's jumped on my back, and
it's pulling my hair--'ow!
[_Most of the Competitors abandon their animals and rush to
the rescue._
_Dick Gatling_ (_coming up later_). Why on earth did you all jack
up like that? You've missed a splendid finish! My Mutton was forging
ahead like fun, when FANSHAWE's Peacock hoisted his sail, and drew
alongside, and it was neck and neck. Only, as he had more neck than
the Mutton, and stuck it out, he won by a beak. Look here, let's have
it all over again!
[_But the Monkey being up a tree, and the Colonel having
surreptitiously got rid of his Rabbit among the bracken,
and the Tortoise having retired within his shell and firmly
declined to come out again, sport is abandoned for the
afternoon, to the scarcely disguised relief of the Curate,
who is prevented from remaining to tea by the pressure of
parish-work._
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE ONLY MAN IN ROTTEN ROW.
SCENE FROM THE RAKE'S PROGRESS.]
* * * * *
LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.
_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square._
DEAR MR. PUNCH,
Once more I am back in my London "_pied-a-terre_"--(but how it can he
a _pied-a-TERRE_, I don't quite know, considering it's a flat on the
fourth floor!--_ridiculous_ language French is to be sure!)--and
very glad to get home again I assure you. I have spent the last few
weeks in the Isle of Wight, which is a British Possession in the
latitude of Spithead--(I don't know why Spithead should want any
latitude, but it seems to take a good deal!)--sacred to Tourists,
_Char-a-bancs_, and Pirates--the latter disguised as Lodging-letters!
While there we suffered severely from Regattas; which swarm in the
Island at this season, and are hotly pursued by the visitors, with the
deadly telescope. I myself was bitten once by the Regatta Bacteria,
and very painful it was. My friend, Baron VON HODGEMANN, owner of the
_Anglesey_, persuaded me to go on board for a race, and we travelled
the whole thirty miles sitting at an angle of forty-five degrees, and
singing the war-cry of the Royal Victoria Yacht Club!--
To the mast-head high we nail the Burge,[1]
When the north wind snores its dismal dirge!
In the trough of the sea with a mighty splurge,
The quiv'ring Yacht beats down the surge,
And weathers the Warner Light!
This experience having inspired me with courage, I indulged in another
flight of daring which required all the _aplomb_ of a leader of
Fashion to carry out successfully; and, though few of the "smart"
Ladies of my set habitually indulge in the habit. I am happy to think
I am encouraging them in a healthy and amusing pastime, which, in the
Summer, may in time even rival Lawn Tennis! However--not to beat about
the bush any longer--an utterly absurd expression this is!--as if it
could hurt the bush to beat it!--to say nothing of the difficulty of
keeping a bush always handy to beat!)--it is time I told you what this
great achievement of mine was--_I went paddling!_ There!--the secret
is out!--the Fashion is set!--the new Summer Amusement discovered!
The Rules of the Game are being written, and will shortly be published
under the title, "_Routledge's Etiquette of Paddling, for Ladies of
Good Standing_." I need hardly tell you that the first thing necessary
is to find a secluded bay, and it is also advisable to collect a few
children to take with you--(there are usually plenty left about on the
beach from which you can make a selection)--as a sort of excuse;--no
other implements are required for the game, in fact, superfluities
are a nuisance and only get wet--thus equipped--the game can be played
with freedom--(_not_ from pebbles)--combined of course with propriety,
and will be found amusing and invigorating--(quotation from the
preface to the Book of Rules written by the eminent German Doctor,
HERR SPLASHENWASSER--inventor of the Water-Cure.
The next Race meeting requiring attention takes place at Doncaster
this week, and the most important race, I take it--at least, _I_
don't take it--but the _winner_ will--another senseless expression--is
naturally the St. Leger, for which I make a poetic selection, which
has cost me weeks of anxious thought, no "leger" task!--(French
joke)--owing to the number of horses engaged, so few of which will
run!
Yours devotedly, LADY GAY.
ST. LEGER SELECTION.
The best of the classic events of the year
We are told by the students of "form,"
Is a foregone conclusion, 'tis perfectly clear,
For the noble possessor of _Orme_.
[Footnote 1: This should really be Burg_ee_, but then it wouldn't
rhyme, and a Poet may drop a _syllable_, if he or she mayn't drop an
H!]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE WOMAN THAT WAS!
_Monsieur le Marechal_ (_who, during the Forties, was a dashing young
Military Attache at, the French Embassy in London_). "AH, DUCHESS,
AND DO YOU REMEMBER ZE SO BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY MARY GWENDOLEN VERE DE
VERE, ZAT EVERYBODY VENT MAD ABOUT VEN I VAS IN ENGLAND? VEN I TINK OF
'ER, MY 'EARRT BEAT EVEN NOW!"
_The Duchess_ (_nee Mary Gwendolen Vere de Vere_). "OH YES, MONSIEUR
LE MARECHAL, I REMEMBER HER ONLY TOO WELL!"
_M. le Marechal._ "VAT 'AS BECAME OF 'ER, MADAME LA DUCHESSE?"
_Her Grace_ (_with a sigh_). "_ELLE N'EST PLUS!_"]
* * * * *
STUDIES IN THE NEW POETRY.
NO. V.
It may be objected that _Mr. Punch's_ fifth example does not strictly
conform to the canons laid down by him in his prefatory remarks to No.
I. _Mr. Punch_ neither admits nor denies the charge. He is convinced,
however, that those who do him the honour to read these Studies, might
justly complain if he failed to include in them an example of the
work of a Poet who has shown our generation how rusticity and rhymes,
cattle and Conservative convictions, peasants and patriotism, may be
combined in verse. It is scarcely necessary to add that the author of
the following magnificent piece is Mr. A-FR-D A-ST-N. Like others who
might be named, he has not the honour to be an agricultural labourer;
but no living man has sung at greater length of rural life, and its
simple joys. Many of his admirers have asserted that Britain ought to
have more than one Laureate, and that Mr. A-FR-D A-ST-N ought to be
among the number. Others are not prepared to go quite so far. They
have been heard to complain that cows and trees, and woodmen and
farms, and sheep and wains, and hay and turnips, do not necessarily
suggest the highest happiness, and that it is not always dignified for
an aspiring Poet to be led about helpless through the byeways of sense
by those wilful, wanton playfellows, his rhymes. The two factions may
be left to fight out their quarrel over the present example, which,
by the way, is _not_ taken from the collected edition of the Poet's
works.
IS LUNCH WORTH LUNCHING?
(_BY A-FR-D A-ST-N._)
Is Lunch worth lunching? Go, dyspeptic man,
Where in the meadows green the oxen munch.
Is it not true that since our land began
The horned ox hath given us steaks for lunch?
Steaks rump or otherwise, the prime sirloin,
Sauced with the stinging radish of the horse.
Beeves meditate and die; we pay our coin,
And though the food be often tough and coarse,
We eat it, we, through whose bold British veins
Bold British hearts drive bubbling British blood.
No true-born Briton, come what may, disdains
To eat the patient chewers of the cud.