PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Dear Charlie,—Bin down as a dab with that dashed heppydemick, dear boy.

I 'ave bloomin' nigh sneezed my poor head orf. You know that there specie of toy

Wot they call cup-and-ball! That's me, Charlie! My back seemed to open and shut,

As the grippe-demon danced on my innards, and played pitch-and-toss with my nut.

Hinfluenza be blowed! It licks hague and cholera rolled into one.

The Sawbones have give it that name, I'm aware, but of course that's their fun.

I've 'ad colds in the head by the hunderd, but this weren't no cold, leastways mine.

Howsomever, I'm jest coming round a bit, thanks to warm slops and QyNine.

Took to reading, I did as I mended; that's mostly a practice with me.

When I'm down on my back that's the time for a turn at my dear old D. T.

A party named Robert Buchanan, as always appears on the job,

Was a slating a chappie called Huxley. Thinks I, I'll take stock of friend Bob.

Well, he ain't much account, that's a moral; a ramblinger Rad never wos.

Old Huxley's wuth ten on him, Charlie, though he's rather huppish and poz.

Are men really born free and equal? Ah! that's wot they're harguing hout.

Bob B., he says "Yus;" Huxley, "No;" and Bob's wrong, there's no manner of doubt.

"Free and equal?" Oh, Nebuchadnezzar! how can they talk sech tommy-rot?

Might as well say as Fiz and Four-Arf should be equally fourpence a pot.

Nice hidea, but taint so, that's the wust on it. There's where these dreamers go wrong.

Ought's nothink, and that as is, is; all the rest isn't wuth a old Song.

Bad as Buggins, the Radical Cobbler, these mugs are. Sez Buggins, sez he,

Wos it Nature give Mudford his millions, and three bob a day to poor me?

Not a bit on it. Nature's a mother, and meant all her gifts for us all.

It's a Law as gives Mudford his Castle, and leaves me a poor Cobbler's Stall.

All I've got to say, Charlie, is this. If so be Nature meant all that there,

She must be a fair "J." as a mater. I've bin bested out of my share.

So has Buggins, and nine out o' ten on us. If the few nobble the quids

Spite of Nature, wy Nature's a noodle as cannot purtect her own kids.

Poor Buggins! He's nuts upon ...