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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
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A NEW BRITISH EXPLOSIVE.
Horror of German General Staff on reading the following extract from notes of spy who, disguised as a Highlander, has been listening near British lines:—"We gave 'em wot 4 not 1⁄2."
"THE IMAGE OF WAR."
(It is reported that a pack of hounds has been sent out to our Army in France, and in this connection it is recalled that the Duke of Wellington had also a pack sent to him from England for the amusement of his officers in the Peninsula.)
So Jorrocks has said, and the captains shall ride,
And a host of good fellows shall follow the fun,
With War, in its realness, a space put aside—
There's a fox in the spinney that once held a Hun;
There's a southerly wind and a wet sky and soft;
There's a respite to snatch, death and ruin amid;
Do not tongues in the woodland fling echoes aloft?
Sounds the horn not as sweetly as ever it did?
And a host of good fellows shall follow the fun,
With War, in its realness, a space put aside—
There's a fox in the spinney that once held a Hun;
There's a southerly wind and a wet sky and soft;
There's a respite to snatch, death and ruin amid;
Do not tongues in the woodland fling echoes aloft?
Sounds the horn not as sweetly as ever it did?
When the Duke and his armies, a hundred years back,
Went Southward a courtlier foeman to seek,
High Leicestershire lent him a galloping pack,
And his stiff-stocked brigades hunted two days a week;
Oh, Portugal's foxes ran stoutly and fast,
And our grandfathers pounded in scarlet and blue,
And they hunted each rogue to his finish at last,
And they hunted old Boney to famed Waterloo!
Went Southward a courtlier foeman to seek,
High Leicestershire lent him a galloping pack,
And his stiff-stocked brigades hunted two days a week;
Oh, Portugal's foxes ran stoutly and fast,
And our grandfathers pounded in scarlet and blue,
And they hunted each rogue to his finish at last,
And they hunted old Boney to famed Waterloo!
When the soldier once more hears the horn's silver note
In hail of War's trumpets, the brazen and bold,
Will the heart of him turn, 'neath to-day's khaki coat,
To dreams of past glories and battles of old?
Torres Vedras's lines and brave Soult's grenadiers,
Badajós and the rest of that great long ago?
Will he follow the fifes of those wonderful years?
Will he think of his fathers? I really don't know.
In hail of War's trumpets, the brazen and bold,
Will the heart of him turn, 'neath to-day's khaki coat,
To dreams of past glories and battles of old?
Torres Vedras's lines and brave Soult's grenadiers,
Badajós and the rest of that great long ago?
Will he follow the fifes of those wonderful years?
Will he think of his fathers? I really don't know.
Nay, I fancy he won't; but may-happen he'll see
In his mind's eye the Midlands go rolling away
In fair ridge and furrow, when steeple and tree
Are blurred in the mists of a mild winter's day;
He'll mark the gnarled pollards by Whissendine's brook,
The far meads of Ashwell, dim, peaceful and still,
Where the big grazing bullocks lift heads up to look
When the Cottesmore come streaming from Ranksborough Hill.
In his mind's eye the Midlands go rolling away
In fair ridge and furrow, when steeple and tree
Are blurred in the mists of a mild winter's day;
He'll mark the gnarled pollards by Whissendine's brook,
The far meads of Ashwell, dim, peaceful and still,
Where the big grazing bullocks lift heads up to look
When the Cottesmore come streaming from Ranksborough Hill.
Well, dreamer or no, may his fortune be good;
May he find him delight in a hound and a horse
Kin to what he has found in a Leicestershire wood,
Like the best he has known in a Lincolnshire gorse!
May the Fates keep him safe, and show sport to his pack
Till he starts the great run that shall end at Berlin!
And when cubbing is o'er may the Shires see him back,
For the Lord send a Peace ere November comes in!
May he find him delight in a hound and a horse
Kin to what he has found in a Leicestershire wood,
Like the best he has known in a Lincolnshire gorse!
May the Fates keep him safe, and show sport to his pack
Till he starts the great run that shall end at Berlin!
And when cubbing is o'er may the Shires see him back,
For the Lord send a Peace ere November comes in!
"Several houses are inundated in Brocas Street, including a public-house, where drink can only be obtained at the back door from punts."—Edinburgh Evening Dispatch.
Come where the drink is cheaper; come where the punts hold more.
