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Punch.

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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,"
Another did reply:
Another did reply, my boys;

So Dr. Reid made free
To give it to us half and half,

And wretched men were we!

The Speaker sits at freezing point, At fever heat the crowd;

In the reporters' gallery

They all complain aloud:
They all complain aloud, my boys,
Of Reid in language free;

And say, not even Peel can blow
So hot and cold as he!

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.
(A new "Percy Relique.")

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."

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SHE AND I.

I IN a mighty palace,
She in a lonely room,

I where the lights are shining,
She where there is but gloom,

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,
I where the lights are shining,
She with her fair head bowed,
I noble, rich, and courted,
Chief of a mighty throng.
She by her kin deserted,
Burdened with care and wrong.
Could I but share her sorrow,

One aching thought beguile,
Gladden her heart to-morrow,

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,
I in a lonely room,

She where the gas is shining,
I where there is but gloom,
She amid mirth and laughter,
I where no mirth is known,

She with young swells around her,
I with my pipe alone.
She where the money clinketh,
I where no tick's allowed,
She where the masher drinketh,
I with my poor head bowed,
She pretty, young, and courted,
Chief of the Barmaid throng,
I by my friends deserted,

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 !
Air-"Do you ken John Peel?"

Do you ken Arthur Peel in the nightly fray?
Do you ken Arthur Peel at the break of day?
Do you think he won't wish himself far far away,
Ere the House rises early in the morning?

Chorus

For the sound of the Pats keeps us each from our bed,
And the Tory horse bolts if you give him his head,
And the row of the Rads, by sly Labouchere led,
At Wild West-minster sounds until morning.
Yes, I know Arthur Peel, with his seat so true,
And he needs it indeed on that buck-jumping screw,
Which to fling Arthur Peel has done all that it knew,
The bit and the bridle still scorning.
Chorus-For the sound, &c.

Do you ken Arthur Peel of the resolute will,
And the "hand" that is worthy of Buffalo Bill?
Do you think the buck-jumper would not like to spill
The cool hand on its back ere the morning!
Chorus-For the sound, &c.

Yes, I know Arthur Peel for a rough-riding body,
At handling a rogue almost equal to Cody,
And down like a hammer on noodle and noddy,

Though kept in the saddle till morning.
Chorus-For the sound, &c.

Do you ken Arthur Peel with a snaffle so strong,
Prepared for a contest that's dour and ding-dong,
For a rally that's sharp and a struggle that's long,
Which may last all the night until morning?
Chorus-For the sound, &c.

Do you ken Arthur Peel with the spur at his heel,
Which the stubbornest buck-jumper's bound for to feel,
And flinch at the punishment dealt out by Peel,

While Wild West-minster howls in the morning?
Chorus-For the sound, &c.

Yes, I know Arthur Peel as a chap who won't shirk;
But his mount of to-day is a tiger, a Turk,
And to break it to harness he'll have all his work,

Though he leathers and spurs night and morning.
Chorus-

For the sound of its snorts and the pad of its feet
Show this buck-jumping brute is a teaser to beat,
And Peel will do well if he still keeps his seat
When Wild West-minster shuts some fine morning.
Punch. May 14, 1887.

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Du rouge et violet ;

Gros Nez! Qui te regarde à travers un grand verre,
Te juge encore plus beau.

Tu ne ressemblas point au nez de quelque hère
Qui ne boit que de l'eau.

Un coq d'inde, sa gorge à toy semblable porte :
Combien de riches gens

N'ont pas si riche nez! Pour te peindre en la sorte,
Il faut beaucoup de temps.

Le verre est le pinceau, duquel on t'enlumine;
Le vin est la couleur

Dont on t'a peint ainsi plus rouge qu'une guisgne
En beuvant du meilleur.

On dit qu'il nuit aux yeux; mais seront ils les maistres?
Le vin est la guarison

De mes maux: J'aime mieux perdre les deux fenestres Que toute la maison.

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For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use,
And the choicest of wine is my colour;

And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues,
The fuller I fill it,-the fuller.

Jolly Nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight
Such dullards know nothing about it;

'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.

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DERBY AND JONES.

(With convivial compliments to Mr. James Molloy.)
THE Derby's here, and I'm getting grey,
By Jove I'm fifty if I'm a day;

But through dust and sun, I like my fun
As the cab rolls on.

So we, that is Jones my friend and I,

Have each to our wives made this reply:
"Yes, we're going,-like two staid elderly men,
But don't mean, my dear, to do it again."
And its always the same! Serious tones,-
Then a nice little game with my old friend Jones.
A nice little game with my old friend Jones.

Arm-in-arm, after lunch that day,

Arm-in-arm,-well we made our way:
And everything spun round and round like fun
As the cab bowled on!

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, I am old and grey,
Fifty years since my Newark day;
Changes will come to every one
As the years roll on.

Derby, dear, when the votes went wry,
Out in the cold and alone was I;
Ah! but the thought of you cheered me then,
"Tis not for long he can hold with Ben."

Always the same, Derby, my own,
Always the same to your old Glad-stone !
Always the same to your old Glad-stone!

Derby, dear, but I did feel riled,
When the Jingoes with joy went wild,

Until hope whispered Knowsley's lord
"Loveth not the sword."
Derby, dear, 'twas your backing out
Showed the way for the Tories' rout,
Ah, dear! how you stilled my fear,
Life appeared better and office near.
Always the same, Derby, my own,
Always the same to your old Glad-stone !
Always the same to your old Glad-stone !
Punch. December 23, 1882.

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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,
Whereas mine was turning white,

Don't dye your hair when you grow old,
Either black, or brown, or gold,
Or the day you'll surely rue,
"Ne'er say dye" what'er you do.

Then to myself I said, said I,
I'll try a bottle of hair dye;
Out I rush'd, and hurried back
With a bottle labell'd black.
When I'd rubb'd it on my head,
I look'd beautiful, folks said,

But when I'd embraced dear Grace
I found out I'd dyed her face.

Don't dye your hair, &c.

And in the morning, I declare,
Bright magenta was my hair.
To the hairdresser I flew,

"Sir," said he, "that's nothing new,
Try our ostrich marrow grease,
Try it, and your fretting cease;"
So I did, and next was seen
With my hair a light pea green.

Don't dye your hair, &c.

Next day, alas! 'twas dirty pink,
Then the colour of red ink;

Next 'twas purple, then 'twas blue,
Every colour it's gone through.

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.

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UPON my childhood's pallid morn,

No tropic summer smiled,

In foreign lands I was not born,
A happy heathen child.

Alas! but in a colder clime,

A cultured clime I dwell,

All in the foremost ranks of Time,
They say: I know it well.

You never learn geography,
No grammar makes you wild.
A book, a slate you never see,
You happy heathen child.

I know in forest and in glade,
Your games are odd, but gay.
Think of the little British maid,
Who has no place for play.
When ended is the day's long joy,
And you to rest have gone,

Think of the little British boy,
Who still is toiling on.

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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,
Where early fa's the dew;
And it's there that Annie Laurie
Gied me her promise true;
Gied me her promise true,
Which ne'er forgot will be;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doun and dee.

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,
Is the fa' o' her fairy feet;
And like winds in summer sighing,
Her voice is low and sweet;
Her voice is low and sweet,

And she's all the world to me;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doun and dee.

OLD SIR PETER LAURIE.

THE Guildhall Bench is funny,
When prisoners stand in view,
For it's there Sir Peter Laurie,
Gives them his promise true.
Gives them his promise true,
To "put 'em down," he'll try ;
How that Old Sir Peter Laurie
Lays down the Law-my eye

How that Old Sir Peter Laurie, &c.

His nose is like the roast beef,

The Civic board upon;

His phiz it is the ruddiest,
That e'er the gas shone on,
That e'er the gas shone on,
And grey his gooseberry eye;
And how Old Sir Peter Laurie
Lays down the Law-my eye!

Like a dray through Cheapside going,
Is the fall of his heavy feet;
Like a windy knacker blowing,

His voice about as sweet.
His voice is just as sweet,
And to put down all he'll try;
How that Old Sir Peter Laurie
Lays down the Law-my eye!

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."

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MY MOTHER-IN-LAW.
(Air-Mary o'Argyle.)

I HAVE heard the cats a-squealing
On the slates at early morn;

I have the seen the tiles a-stealing,
From the roof-tops in a storm;
But the sound which most doth fear me,
And disturb life's sweet repose;

I have seen an eye still blacker,
Than the ink upon white clothes.

'Tis thy voice, my once dear-mother-
In-law, which doth me rile,
When you speak the house doth tremble,
So roof-lifting is your style.
Though thy voice may lose its gruffness,
And thine eye its pot-black hue;
And thy lengthy step its longness,
And thy hair its redness too;

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.

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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,

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