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    Punch, or the London Charivari, October 28th 1893
    Punch, or the London Charivari, October 28th 1893
    Punch, or the London Charivari, October 28th 1893
    Ebook95 pages39 minutes

    Punch, or the London Charivari, October 28th 1893

    By Various Various

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 15, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari, October 28th 1893

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      Book preview

      Punch, or the London Charivari, October 28th 1893 - Various Various

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, October

      28th 1893, by Various

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license

      Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, October 28th 1893

      Author: Various

      Release Date: April 3, 2012 [EBook #39362]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***

      Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Lesley Halamek and the Online

      Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      Punch, or the London Charivari

      Volume 105, October 28th 1893

      edited by Sir Francis Burnand

      MY LANDLORD.

      (By a Tenant.)

      Who asked a rent absurdly high;

      Who never scrupled at a lie?

      The house well built! The soil so dry!

      My Landlord.

      Whose saving schemes cause constant fears

      The house will fall about my ears?

      I say it totters, and he sneers.

      My Landlord.

      The cellar's flooded when it rains;

      The ceilings show damp, mouldy stains.

      Who swindled me about the drains?

      My Landlord.

      Who called the house extremely nice?

      It's simply overrun with mice,

      The cook has had hysterics twice.

      My Landlord.

      Who praised the garden in a way

      To seem like Eden? I should say

      The soil is brickbats mixed with clay.

      My Landlord.

      Who said each kind of plant succeeds?

      Yet when I sow the choicest seeds

      They all develop into weeds.

      My Landlord.

      What's this? A note from him—a few

      Short lines to say the rent is due.

      Who tells me facts not new, if true?

      My Landlord.

      A Suggestion.—A decoration for Jabez Balfour,—The Order of the Golden Fleece.

      RECKLESS.

      Moderate Swell. Going to take a Cab?

      Immoderate Swell. Er—no.

      M. S. No Umbrella, I see.

      Imm. S. Er—no, dear Boy. See—if you—er—carry 'brella—Looks as if you'd only One Suit a Clothes!

      MY TENANT.

      (By a Landlord.)

      Who haggled long about the price;

      Who says my house is far from nice;

      Who seeks solicitor's advice?

      My Tenant.

      Who wants incessantly repairs

      To floors and ceilings, steps and stairs;

      Who doats on hygienic scares?

      My Tenant.

      Who lives in fear of sewer gas,

      So that the plumbers soon amass

      Vast sums, once mine? That utter ass,

      My Tenant.

      Eternally some fresh complaint;

      Distemper, whitewash, paper, paint!

      He is enough to vex a saint—

      My Tenant.

      Who lets the garden go to pot?

      What used to be a pleasant spot

      Is worse than an allotment plot.

      My Tenant.

      Deferring payments suits his bent;

      When various demands I've sent;

      Unwillingly he pays the rent,

      My Tenant.

      A note from him? Another growl!

      Some chimney smokes, he wants a cowl.

      Thus he complains, that moping owl,

      My Tenant.

      Mrs. R. says she always understood you must catch your hare before you cook it; so she cannot for the life of her make out what a friend of hers meant by telling her that "when their kitchen-maid cooked the hare she caught it afterwards!"

      A DIARY À LA RUSSE.

      Monday.—Rather tired of this constant hand-shaking, and even the lady-kissing is somewhat wearisome. Especially when the fair dames do not draw the line at sixty. However, no doubt well meant. Found usual collection of miscellaneous presents. Don't quite know what I shall do with

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