Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 103, November 12, 1892 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 103, November 12, 1892
He's there by himself, counting piles of pelf
Of a counterfeit gamboge hue.
He's wizened and dried like old _Arthur Gride_,
That the novelist DICKENS drew.
In the midst of his heaps,
He conveniently sleeps
With his glass at his right-hand side!
Keep watch on the door while he snores his snore--
See it open a foot or two!
Oh! well is it planned! for the wobbling hand
Of the villain, with bottle blue,
Knows at once where to pass
To the property glass
Of the melodramatic brand!
The murderer goes; the Jew's eyes unclose,
And they look for his liquor true!
Sit tight while the treat is at fever heat;
For I saw by that bottle blue,
And I knew by its label too,
That the stuff it contained,
If by anyone drained,
Must prove fatal if taken neat!
The poison he lifts, and the lot he shifts!
Oh! unfortunate miser Jew!
What use is your gold, now your time is told,
And your moments in life are few?
You may writhe where you sit
Like an eel in a fit,
But you'll die like the Jews of old!
You may struggle a lot,
And get awfully hot,
But you'll have to lie stiff and cold!
You may wriggle no end,
But you're a dead 'un, my friend--
Till the Curtain is quite unrolled!
* * * * *
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