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Page 14
My Wife begs me to follow her example, and conclude with a verse--(I
don't know where she picked up such a bad habit)--but--while bowing
to her wishes--(I am always polite)--to a certain extent, I absolutely
decline to make the verse other than _blank_!
Believe me, Yours obediently,
CHARLES POMPERSON (Bart.).
JOURNALISTIC SELECTION.
I must confess that if compelled
To write for any Journal,
I should prefer as a matter of choice
To write for _Punch_!
[On a slip of paper found in Sir CHARLES's envelope, we have the
following from our valued contributress--[ED.]:--"_DEAR_ MR. PUNCH,--I
am too upset to write--you shall hear from me next week. Tours as
devotedly as ever,--LADY GAY."]
* * * * *
ANECDOTAGE.--_Mr. Punch_ one day was reading aloud from a book of
anecdotes when Mr. WEEDON GROSSMITH was present. "What rot!" observed
the representative of _Lord Arthur Pomeroy_. And _Mr. Punch_ agreed
with him.
* * * * *
PHANTASMA-GORE-IA.
_PICTURING THE VARIOUS MODES OF MELODRAMATIC MURDER. (BY OUR
"OFF-HIS"-HEAD POET.)_
NO. II.--THE POISON MURDER.
[Illustration]
Sit close to your friend, for a frightful end
Is at hand for the miser Jew!
Sit tight to your seat while the pulses beat--
Nestle close to your neighbour, do!
For he'll perish, alas!
From a property glass
Filled with nothing whatever--neat!
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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