Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 103, October 22, 1892 by Various

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Page 1

What changes had he known, who sat
With our four chiefs, of each fast friend!
And must such _camaraderie_ end?
Shall friendly counsel, cordial chat,
Come nevermore again to us
From lips with kindness tremulous?

No more shall those blue eyes ray out
Swift sympathy, or sudden mirth;
That ever mobile mouth give birth
To frolic whim, or friendly flout?
Our hearts will miss thee to the end,
Amphitryon generous, faithful friend!

Miss thee? Alas! the void that's there
No other form may hope to fill,
For those who now with sorrow thrill
In gazing on that vacant chair;
Whither it seems he _must_ return,
For whose warm hand-clasp yet we yearn.

Tribute to genius all may give,
Ours is the homage of the heart;
For a friend lost our tears will start,
Lost to our sight, yet who shall live,
Whilst one who knew that bold frank face
At the old board takes the old place.

For those, his closer kin, whose home
Is darkened by the shadow grey,
What can respectful love but pray
That consolation thither come
In that most sacred soothing guise
Which natural sorrow sanctifies.

Bereavement's anguish to assuage
Is a sore task that lies beyond
The scope of friendship or most fond
Affection's power. Yet may this page,
True witness of our love and grief,
To bowed hearts bring some scant relief!

* * * * *



CURRAN, the celebrated Irish Patriot, was a man of intense wit and
humour. On one occasion he was discussing with RICHARD BRINSLEY
SHERIDAN the possibility of combining the interests of the two
countries under one Crown. "It is a difficult matter to arrange,"
observed the brilliant author of the _School for Scandal_, "Right you
are, darlint," acquiesced CURRAN, with the least taste of a brogue.
"But where are ye to find the spalpeens for it? Ye may wake so poor a
creature as a sow, but it takes a real gintleman to raise the rint!"
Then, with a twinkle in his eyes, "But, for all that, ma cruiskeen,
I'm not meself at all at all!"

* * * * *



The dainty artificial fly
Designed to catch the wily trout,
Full loud _laudabunt alii_,
And I will join, at times, no doubt,
But yet my praise, without pretence,
Is not from great experience.

I talk as well as anyone
About the different kinds of tackle,
I praise the Gnat, the Olive Dun,
Discuss the worth of wings and hackle;
I've flies myself of each design,
No book is better filled than mine.

But when I reach the river's side
Alone, for none of these I wish.
No victim to a foolish pride.
My object is to capture fish;
Let me confess, then, since you ask it--
A worm it is which fills my basket!

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Fri 5th Jun 2020, 21:50