File:Punch (1841) (14779667381).jpg

Identifier: punchv50lemo (find matches)
Title: Punch
Year: 1841 (1840s)
Authors: Lemon, Mark, 1809-1870 Mayhew, Henry, 1812-1887 Taylor, Tom, 1817-1880 Brooks, Shirley, 1816-1874 Burnand, F. C. (Francis Cowley), 1836-1917 Seaman, Owen, 1861-1936
Subjects: English wit and humor English wit and humor, Pictorial
Publisher: (London) : (Punch Publications Ltd., etc.)
Contributing Library: Lincoln Financial Foundation Collection
Digitizing Sponsor: The Institute of Museum and Library Services through an Indiana State Library LSTA Grant

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Text Appearing Before Image:
ts. Quoth Russell, Yes: some rotten brothers- To the great blessing of the others. True, quoth the ram— true—with a but; Their throats, who said so, were not cut; But when you chose that lot for killing, You never asked if they were willing, Japanese style, the knife to snatch, And cheerfully themselves dispatch. The country, keen to have their lives, Supplied the butchers and the knives. Touching Reform Bill number two— Death to us, prap3, if sport to you— There is one question / must put— How many throats are to be cut ? The questions idle, quoth the swain, Yourselves shall deal the wholesome pain : With your own hands let out the blood Thats wanted for the general good! Thank you! the ancient ram replied, The privilege should rouse our pride; But, sheep or men, Sir, life is life, And if you mean to use the knife, Dont leave to us its application, But go for butchers to the nation. Proclaim our doom: let Eogland view it . . . If she likes, she 11 send hands to do it. B g #
Text Appearing After Image:
d O w o •-aa fo d o Q ift> W i—i <J ow Q w oo OS C I March 24, 1866.J PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 125 Augustus Smith, of Scilly, By Pipers Hole he sworeThat the proud Lord of Brownlow Should keep the waste no more.By Pipers Hole he swore it, And named a trysting night,And bade his myrmidons ride forth,By special train from Londons north, To venge the Common Right. Where on the street of Drummond Four Doric columns frown,Where the gigantic Stephenson On his own line looks down,The stalwart navvies gathered, From lodgings far and near ;Strong were the crowbars in their hands, Stronger their hope for beer. Loured the foul London gaslights, And made the gloom more deep,The million-peopled citys sons Were in their early sleep,When from the Euston Station. Glided the special trainThat bore the force that went to win Berkhampsteads waste again. And sternly rode each navvy, The crowbar in his gripe,And scornful of the snob-made law, A fire in every pipe;They rode in solemn silen

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