Mr Punch Afloat Part 11

[Ill.u.s.tration]

I'M AFLOAT

(_Mr. Punch in the Ocean on the broad of his back, singeth_)

I'm afloat, I'm afloat, what matters it where?

So the devils don't know my address, I don't care.

Of London I'm sick, I've come down to the sea, And let who will make up next week's number for me!

At my lodgings, I know, I'm done frightfully brown, And e'en lobsters and shrimps cost me more than in town; I've B. flats in my bed, and my landlady stern, Says from London I've brought 'em to give her a turn.

Yet I'm happier far in my dear seaside home, Than the Queen on Dee side, or Art-traveller in Rome; A Cab-horse at gra.s.s would be nothing to me,

On the broad of my back floating free, floating free!

On the broad of my back floating free, floating free!

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! ha!

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! ha!

With the lodging-house-keepers all day on the bite, And the insects I spoke of as hungry at night, With the organs "_Dog-traying_" and "_Bobbing Around_,"

And extra-size Crinolines sweeping the ground, You may think _Mr. Punch_ might be apt to complain That the seaside's but Regent Street over again: But from devils and copy and proof-sheets set free, I've a week to do nothing but bathe in the sea.

In steamers and yachts I've been rocked on its breast, And didn't much like it, it must be confessed; But a cosy machine and shoal water give me, And there let me float--let me float and be free!

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! ha!

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! ha!

(1858)

THAMES WEATHER

Come, George, give your clubs and your Haskells a rest, man: You can't spend the whole of your lifetime in golf; If it pleases your pride I'll admit you're the best man That ever wore scarlet or teed a ball off; I'll allow they can't match you in swinging or driving, That your shots are as long as they always are true, And I'll grant that what others effect after striving For years on the green comes by nature to you.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

But the sun's in the sky, and the leaves are a-shiver With a soft bit of breeze that is cool to the brow; And I seem to remember a jolly old river Which is smiling all over--I think you know how.

There are whispers of welcome from rushes and sedge there, There's a blaze of laburnum and lilac and may; There are lawns of close gra.s.s sloping down to the edge there; You can lie there and lounge there and dream there to-day.

There are great spreading chestnuts all ranged in their arches With their pinnacled blossoms so pink and so white; There are rugged old oaks, there are tender young larches, There are willows, cool willows, to chequer the light.

Each tree seems to ask you to come and be shaded-- It's a way they all have, these adorable trees-- And the leaves all invite you to float down unaided In your broad-bottomed punt and to rest at your ease.

And then, when we're tired of the _dolce far niente_, We'll remember our skill in the grandest of sports, Imagine we're back at the great age of twenty, And change our long clothes for a zephyr and shorts.

And so, with a zest that no time can diminish, We will sit in our boat and get forward and dare, As we grip the beginning and hold out the finish, To smite the Thames furrows afloat in a pair.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AQUATICS--WHEN THE BEES ARE SWARMING]

[Ill.u.s.tration: PREHISTORIC PEEPS

It is quite a mistake to suppose that Henley Regatta was not antic.i.p.ated in earliest times.]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

ON THE RIVER

I sat in a punt at Twickenham, I've sat at Hampton Wick in 'em.

I hate sea boats, I'm sick in 'em-- The man, I, Tom, and d.i.c.k in 'em.

Oh, gentles! I've been pickin 'em.

For bait, the man's been stickin 'em (Cruel!) on hooks with kick in 'em The small fish have been lickin 'em.

And when the hook was quick in 'em, I with my rod was nickin 'em, Up in the air was flickin 'em.

My feet so cold, kept kickin 'em.

We'd hampers, with _aspic_ in 'em, Sandwiches made of chicken, 'em We ate, we'd stone jars thick, in 'em Good liquor; we pic-nic-ing 'em Sat: till our necks a rick in 'em We turned again t'wards Twickenham.

And paid our punts, for tickin 'em They don't quite see at Twickenham.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE ART OF CONVERSATION

_British Tourist_ (_to fellow-pa.s.senger, in mid-Channel_). "Going across, I suppose?"

_Fellow-Pa.s.senger._ "Yaas. Are you?"]

THE CHANNEL BAROMETER

_Very fair._--Really delightful. Nothing could be pleasanter. Sunshine.

Ozone. Does everyone a world of good. Would not miss such a pa.s.sage for worlds.

_Fair._--Yes; it is decidedly an improvement upon a railway carriage.

Room to move about. I don't in the least mind the eighty odd minutes. If cold, you can put on a wrap, and there you are.

_Change._--Always thought there was something to be said in favour of the Channel Tunnel. Of course, one likes to be patriotic, but the movement in a choppy sea is the reverse of invigorating.

_Wind._--There should be a notice when a bad pa.s.sage is expected. It's all very well to describe this as "moderate," but that doesn't prevent the beastly waves from running mountains high.

_Stormy._--It is simply disgraceful. Would not have come if I had known.

Too depressed to say anything. Where is the steward?

_Gale._--Why--was--I--ever--born?

[Ill.u.s.tration: EUPHEMISM

_Man in Boat._ "Come along, old chap, and let's pull up to Marlow."