Punch. IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. (A Voice from the Ventilator.) WITH wet feet, in a committee, To our seats tied hard and fast, We sit half-starved, and to our call Comes Dr. Reid at last : Comes Dr. Reid at last, my boys, And turns the valves so free; Away the cold air flies and leaves The room at eighty-three. "Oh, for a cool and gentle wind!" I heard a member cry; "But give it to me hot and hot," So Dr. Reid made free And wretched men were we! The Speaker sits at freezing point, At fever heat the crowd; In the reporters' gallery They all complain aloud: And say, not even Peel can blow 1845. At that time there were loud complaints about the bad ventilation of the House of Commons, and every remedy tried, seemed only to make matters worse. Nor was much improvement felt when the members were installed in Sir Charles Barry's new Palace of Westminster, which has nearly every fault that it is possible a large public building can have. The site is probably the worst that could have been selected. The palace lies low, close to a polluted river, which smells intolerably in the summer, and gives off fog and damp in the winter. The style of architecture is totally unsuited for our climate, or for the purposes for which it is intended, and the stone of which it is built is rapidly crumbling away, whilst although the building covers nine acres of ground, the room in which the Commons meet will only accommodate a little more than half their number. Every consideration of comfort and utility was sacrificed to gratify an architectural fad, and the requirements of the two legislative bodies who use the building were simply ignored. Frequent debates have been held, and divisions taken, to express the dissatisfaction of the members. Committees have been appointed to examine into, and report upon the heating and ventilation, the sanitary arrangements, and the possibility of enlarging the Commons chamber. Costly repairs are constantly going on, crumbling stonework is removed and replaced, and experiments of all kinds have been tried to remedy the structural defects. But all to no purpose, and the building remains a costly monument of a nation's folly, and an architect's vanity and incompetence. SIR PERCY AND THE FEARFUL FOGGE. FULL seven hundred Members mayde aloude thys one remark "Scarce can we breathe, or speke, or thynke. Wee all are in the darke." Like unto pygmyes arm'd against great Basan's Monarque Og, So gasping, gallant gentlemen doe battell with the Fogge. Stout Percy to the Commons went, all in Westministeere. Quoth he, "Ye have good neede of help, the Fogge doth enter heere. "I ventylate and drayne the House, and keep it sweet and cool." Cryed every man, "Who'll stay the Fogge?" Quoth bold Percy, "I wool! " "Now bless thee, Doctor Percy!" cry the Commons with a cheer, "If thou the Fogge shall set at naught all in Westministeere; "And if with cotton-wool thou pluggest cranny, hole, and crack, The Lords we'll dysestablyshe, and to thee give the Woolsack." Stout Percy sniff'd a pynche of snuff, all of the olden schoole. Quoth he, "And if I fayle I'll get the Sack without the Wool. "Natheless the cotton-wool I'll try; my very best I'll do." "No more can we expect," sayde each to each. "Que woolley woo?" Stout Percy hies him to the work, nor lists to knave nor fool. "Plenty of cry' there be," quoth he. "My ears hold cotton-wool. "As walls have ears, I trow," quoth he, "those at Westministeere Will thank me soe for saving them from much that else they'd heare." Then Heav'n send Doctor Percy may bring them light and peace! May Fogge clear from Westministeere, and all obstruction cease! Punch. March 19, 1887. In August 1887, Mr. Plunket, questioned by Mr. Esslemont and Dr. Kenny, said "he had no reason to believe that the air of the House of Commons was noxious. As to the artificial system of ventilation, it simply consisted in drawing up the air through the ceiling when it had been breathed by members, in order that there might be a freer and more constant access of fresh air from below. That air passed over ice to make it cooler, and he could not recommend the discontinuance of the system. Straining the air through cotton wool had been tried, but the officials were waiting for the next fog before making another experiment." :0: SHE AND I. I IN a mighty palace, I where the lights are shining, I amid mirth and laughter, She where no laugh is known, I with gay friends around me, She with her fears alone. I where gay music soundeth, She where the clock ticks loud, One aching thought beguile, Woo from her lips one smile, Oh, then I would give how gladly The joys that the world may prize, For one touch of her gentle fingers, One glance of her loving eyes. G. COURTENAY BOYLE. I AND SHE. SHE in a gay gin palace, She where the gas is shining, She with young swells around her, One more good man gone wrong. Ah! she could soothe my sorrow, This aching heart beguile, If from her I could borrow Ten shillings for a while. And, oh, I would take it gladly, Altho' it perhaps sounds queer, If she drew me with gentle fingers One glass of her bitter beer. From The Keys At Home.' By J. M. Lowry. London. Field and Tuer, 1885. WILD WEST-MINSTER ! Do you ken Arthur Peel in the nightly fray? Chorus For the sound of the Pats keeps us each from our bed, Do you ken Arthur Peel of the resolute will, Yes, I know Arthur Peel for a rough-riding body, Though kept in the saddle till morning. Do you ken Arthur Peel with a snaffle so strong, Do you ken Arthur Peel with the spur at his heel, While Wild West-minster howls in the morning? Yes, I know Arthur Peel as a chap who won't shirk; Though he leathers and spurs night and morning. For the sound of its snorts and the pad of its feet Du rouge et violet ; Gros Nez! Qui te regarde à travers un grand verre, Tu ne ressemblas point au nez de quelque hère Un coq d'inde, sa gorge à toy semblable porte : N'ont pas si riche nez! Pour te peindre en la sorte, Le verre est le pinceau, duquel on t'enlumine; Dont on t'a peint ainsi plus rouge qu'une guisgne On dit qu'il nuit aux yeux; mais seront ils les maistres? De mes maux: J'aime mieux perdre les deux fenestres Que toute la maison. For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use, And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues, Jolly Nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight 'Tis better with wine to extinguish the light, Than live always in darkness without it. Mr. Ainsworth had omitted the third verse, this is supplied in the above version by Mr. Bates, but it will readily be seen that his lines are inferior to the gay sparkling verses of Mr. Ainsworth's translation. :0: DERBY AND JONES. (With convivial compliments to Mr. James Molloy.) But through dust and sun, I like my fun So we, that is Jones my friend and I, Have each to our wives made this reply: Arm-in-arm, after lunch that day, Arm-in-arm,-well we made our way: Arm-in-arm, we managed to slide, Though the streets and lamps all took the wrong side; And we never could quite tell how or when Each of us got safe home again! Always the same !-Banjo and BonesAlways the same with my old friend Jones. Always the same with my old friend Jones. Punch. June 4, 1881. GLADSTONE SINGS: (Addressing the Earl of Derby.) Derby, dear, when the votes went wry, Always the same, Derby, my own, Derby, dear, but I did feel riled, Until hope whispered Knowsley's lord DON'T DYE YOUR HAIR WHEN YOU GROW OLD. (Parody on "Silver Threads among the Gold.”) DON'T dye your hair when you grow old, Or you surely will be sold, As I found myself one day When my hair was turning grey, On a pretty girl, named Grace, I was spooney, quite a case, But her hair was black and bright, Don't dye your hair when you grow old, Then to myself I said, said I, But when I'd embraced dear Grace Don't dye your hair, &c. And in the morning, I declare, "Sir," said he, "that's nothing new, Don't dye your hair, &c. Next day, alas! 'twas dirty pink, Next 'twas purple, then 'twas blue, Now content with homely grey, Often to dear Grace I say, "Locks may lose their black or gold, But true love will ne'er grow old." Don't dye your hair, &c. UPON my childhood's pallid morn, No tropic summer smiled, In foreign lands I was not born, Alas! but in a colder clime, A cultured clime I dwell, All in the foremost ranks of Time, You never learn geography, I know in forest and in glade, Think of the little British boy, Supposed to have been modernised from an old Scotch song by Douglas, and dedicated by him to Annie Laurie, daughter of Sir Robert Laurie. Tradition says that Douglas was rejected by the young lady, and further, that he did not "lay him doun and dee." MAXWELTON braes are bonnie, Her brow is like the snaw-drift, Her throat is like the swan, Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on; That e'er the sun shone on, And dark blue is her ee; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee. Like dew on the gowan lying, And she's all the world to me; OLD SIR PETER LAURIE. THE Guildhall Bench is funny, How that Old Sir Peter Laurie, &c. His nose is like the roast beef, The Civic board upon; His phiz it is the ruddiest, Like a dray through Cheapside going, His voice about as sweet. J. A. HARDWICK, In his day old Sir Peter Laurie was about as unpopular on the Bench as Mr. Newton is in this, and was scarcely less distinguished for the folly of his magisterial remarks. The actual circumstance which gave rise to the parody occurred in 1844, when a poor forlorn, half starved, and wholly ruined young woman was charged before this great and good Alderman. "Sir Peter Laurie said he should send her to the Old Bailey for attempted suicide. It was a fit case for trial, and he had no doubt she would be transported. He had put an end to persons attempting to drown themselves; he would now try the same cure for attempted poisoning. He had no doubt that those who took poison did not do so for the purpose of self-destruction, but for the purpose of exciting sympathy." :0: MY MOTHER-IN-LAW. I HAVE heard the cats a-squealing I have the seen the tiles a-stealing, I have seen an eye still blacker, 'Tis thy voice, my once dear-mother- Still to me thou'lt be more frightful, Than I shall ever own; I have shunn'd thee for thy harshness, But not for that alone. 'Tis thy voice-hark-now 'tis stealing, Down the garret stairs, the while, Like sad funeral bells a pealing, I must answer it, or I'll Detroit Free Press. January 15, 1887. :0: POOR JOE.* DAVID WElch. OH, dear; what can the matter be? Oh, dear; what can the matter be? Oh, dear; what can the matter be? Joseph's so very much out. * Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, |