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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 156, May 7, 1919

Volume 156 — REVANCHE.

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When I had seen ten thousand pass me by And waved my arms and wearied of hallooing, "Ho, taxi-meter! Taxi-meter, hi!" And they hied on and there was nothing doing; When I was sick of counting dud by dud Bearing I know not whom—or coarse carousers, Or damsels fairer than the moss-rose bud— And still more sick at having bits of mud Daubed on my new dress-trousers; I went to dinner by the Underground And every time the carriage stopped or started Clung to my neighbour very tightly round The neck till at Sloane Square his collar parted. I saw my hostess glancing at my socks, Surprised perhaps at so much clay's adherence And, still unnerved by those infernal shocks, Said, "I was working in my window-box; Excuse my soiled appearance." But in the morn I found a silent square And one tall house with all the windows shuttered, The mansion of the Marquis of Mayfair, And "Here shall be the counter-stroke," I muttered; "Shall not the noble Marquis and his kin Make feast to-night in his superb refectory, And then go on to see 'The Purple Sin'? They shall." I sought a taxi-garage in The Telephone Directory. "Ho, there!" I cried within the wooden hutch; "Hammersmith House—a most absurd dilemma— His lordship's motor-cars have strained a clutch, And taxis are required at 8 pip emma (Six of your finest and most up-to-date, With no false starts and no foul petrol leaking), To bear a certain party of the great To the Melpomene at ten past eight. Thompson, the butler, speaking." They came. And I at the appointed hour Watched them arrive before the muted dwelling And heard some speeches full of pith and power And saw them turn and go with anger swelling; Save only one who, spite his rude dismay, Like a whipped Hun, made traffic of his sorrow And shouted, "Taxi, Sir?" I answered "Nay, I do not need you, jarvey, but I may Be disengaged to-morrow." EVOE.

The Punishment of Greed.

"Large quantity of new Block Chocolate offered cheap; cause ill-health."—Manchester Evening News.

"Miss M. Albanesi, daughter of the well-known singer, Mme. Albanesi."—Daily Paper.

Not to be confused with Mme. ALBANI, the popular novelist.

"The Portuguese retreated a step. His head flew to his hip-pocket. But he was a fraction of a second too late."—The Scout.

Many a slip 'twixt the head and the hip.

GHOSTS AT VERSAILLES.
GHOSTS AT VERSAILLES.

GHOSTS AT VERSAILLES.

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