Volume 103 — STUDIES IN THE NEW POETRY.
Reading edition
No. V.
It may be objected that Mr. Punch's fifth example does not strictly conform to the canons laid down by him in his prefatory remarks to No. I. Mr. Punch neither admits nor denies the charge. He is convinced, however, that those who do him the honour to read these Studies, might justly complain if he failed to include in them an example of the work of a Poet who has shown our generation how rusticity and rhymes, cattle and Conservative convictions, peasants and patriotism, may be combined in verse. It is scarcely necessary to add that the author of the following magnificent piece is Mr. A-FR-D A-ST-N. Like others who might be named, he has not the honour to be an agricultural labourer; but no living man has sung at greater length of rural life, and its simple joys. Many of his admirers have asserted that Britain ought to have more than one Laureate, and that Mr. A-FR-D A-ST-N ought to be among the number. Others are not prepared to go quite so far. They have been heard to complain that cows and trees, and woodmen and farms, and sheep and wains, and hay and turnips, do not necessarily suggest the highest happiness, and that it is not always dignified for an aspiring Poet to be led about helpless through the byeways of sense by those wilful, wanton playfellows, his rhymes. The two factions may be left to fight out their quarrel over the present example, which, by the way, is not taken from the collected edition of the Poet's works.
IS LUNCH WORTH LUNCHING?
(By A-fr-d A-st-n.)
Is Lunch worth lunching? Go, dyspeptic man, Where in the meadows green the oxen munch. Is it not true that since our land began The hornéd ox hath given us steaks for lunch? Steaks rump or otherwise, the prime sirloin, Sauced with the stinging radish of the horse. Beeves meditate and die; we pay our coin, And though the food be often tough and coarse, We eat it, we, through whose bold British veins Bold British hearts drive bubbling British blood. No true-born Briton, come what may, disdains To eat the patient chewers of the cud. Or seek the uplands, where of old Bo Peep (So runs the tale) lost all her fleecy flocks; There happy shepherds tend their grazing sheep (Some men like mutton, some prefer the ox). Ay, surely it would need a heart of flint To watch the blithe lambs caper o'er the lea, And, watching them, refrain from thoughts of mint, Of new potatoes, and the sweet green pea. Is Lunch worth lunching? The September sun Makes answer "Yes;" no longer must thou lag. Forth to the stubble, cynic; take thy gun, And add the juicy partridge to thy bag. Out in the fields the keen-eyed pigeons coo; They fill their crops, and then away they fly. Pigeons are sometimes passable in stew, And always quite delicious in a pie. Or pluck red-currants on some summer day, Then take of raspberries an equal part, Add cream and sugar—can mere words convey The luscious joys of this delightful tart? Is Lunch worth lunching? If such cates should fail, Go out of country bread a solid hunch, Pile on it cheese, wash down with country ale, And, faring plainly, yet enjoy thy lunch. Yea, this is truth, the lunch of knife and fork, The pic-nic lunch, spread out upon the earth, Lunches of beef, bread, mutton, veal, or pork, All, all, without exception all, are worth!
NINETY-NINE OUT OF A HUNDRED CANDIDATES MUST BE "PILLED."—The Living of "Easington-with-Liverton, Yorkshire, worth £600 per annum," is vacant. Is it in the gift of the celebrated Dr. COCKLE? or of Dr. CARTER, of Little-Liverpill-Street fame?
