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Read Ebook: Mr. Punch Afloat: The Humours of Boating and Sailing by Hammerton J A John Alexander Editor Tenniel John Illustrator
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Ebook has 262 lines and 28924 words, and 6 pages
To groan furiously for an hour and a half, if a sufferer; or, if utterly callous to waves and their commotions, to eat beef and ham, and drink porter and brandy-and-water, during the entire voyage, with as much clattering of forks and noise of mastication as is compatible with enjoyment.
To struggle for a front place, in crowding off the steamer, as if the ship was on fire. And finally--
To answer every one who addresses him in good English in the worst possible French.
"What with the horse-boats," said Mrs. Ramsbotham, "the steam-lunches, the condolers, the out-ragers, the Canadian caboose, and the banyans, we had the greatest difficulty, at Henley, in getting from one side of the river to the other."
THE SILVER TEMS!
The butiful River's a-running to Town, It never runs up, but allers runs down, Weather it rains, or weather it snos; And where it all cums from, noboddy nose.
The young swell Boatmen drest in white, To their Mothers' arts must be a delite; At roein or skullin the gals is sutch dabs, For they makes no Fowls and they ketches no Crabs.
The payshent hangler sets in a punt, Willee ketch kold? I hopes as he wunt. I wotches him long, witch I states is fax, He dont ketch nothin but Ticklebacks.
The prudent Ferryman sets under cover, Waiting to take me from one shore to t'other; I calls out "Hover!" and hover he roes, If he aint sober then hover we goes.
When it's poring with rane and a tempest a-blowin, A penny don't seem mutch for this here rowin; And wen the River's as ruff as the Sea, I thinks of the two I'd sooner be me.
For when I'm at work at Ampton or Lea, Waitin at dinner, or waitin at tea, I gits as much from a yewthful Pair As he gits in a day for all that there.
Then let me bless my lucky Star That made me a Waiter and not a Tar; And the werry nex time I've a glass of old Sherry, I'll drink to the pore chap as roes that 'ere Ferry.
ROBERT.
VERY LOW FORM ON THE PART OF FATHER THAMES.
PUNCH'S NAVAL SONGSTER
His native Hungerford he leaves, His Poll of Pedlar's Acre, Who now ashore in silence grieves Because he did not take her. There's a collision fore and aft; Against the pier they squeeze her. "Up boys, and save the precious craft, We from the station shall be chaff'd-- Ho--back her--stop her--ease her."
My name's Ben Bounce, d'ye see, A tar from top to toe, sirs. I'm merry, blithe and free, A marling-spike I know, sirs. In friendship or in love, I climb the top-sail's pinnacle, But in a storm I always prove My heart's abaft the binnacle.
I fear no foreign foe, But cruise about the river; As up and down I go My timbers never shiver. When off life's end I get, I'll make no useless rumpus; But off my steam I'll let, And box my mortal compass.
Quick, let the sturdy painter go, And put the helm a-port; Lay, lay the lofty funnel low, And keep the rigging taut. 'Tis true, my tongue decision shows, I act the captain's part; But oh! there's none on board that knows The captain's aching heart.
Upon the paddle-box all day I've stood, and brav'd the gale, While the light vessel made her way Without a bit of sail. And as upon its onward flight The steamer cut the wave, My crew I've order'd left and right, My stout--my few--my brave!
Afloat, ashore, ahead, astern, With winds propitious or contrary. No--no, belay! I love thee, Mary. Amidships--on the Bentinck shrouds, Athwart the hawse, astride the mizen, Watching at night the fleecy clouds, Your Harry wishes you were his'n.
Then let us heave the nuptial lead, In Hymen's port our anchors weighing; Thy face shall be the figure-head Our ship shall always be displaying. But when old age shall bid us luff, Our honest tack will never vary, But I'll continue Harry Bluff, And thou my little light-built Mary.
WATER-PARTIES
Take four pretty girls And four tidy young men; Add papa and mamma, And your number is ten.
Having ten in your party You'll mostly be eight, For you'll find you can count Upon two to be late.
In the packing of hampers 'Tis voted a fault To be rashly forgetful Of corkscrew and salt.
Take a mayonnaised lobster, A tasty terrine, A salmon, some lamb And a gay galantine.
Take fizz for the lads, Claret-cup for the popsies, And some tartlets with jam So attractive to woppses.
Let the men do the rowing, And all acquire blisters; While the boats go zigzag, Being steered by their sisters.
Out in West Channel we get into what skipper calls "a bit of a bobble." Don't think I care quite so much for yachting in "bobbles." Bigheart shows me all the varied beauties of the coast, but now they fail to interest me. He says, "I say, we'll keep sailing until quite late this evening, eh? That'll be jolly!" Reply, "Yes, that'll be jolly," but somehow my voice lacks heartiness.
An hour later I was lying down--I felt tired--when Bigheart came up, and with a ring of joy in his manly tones exclaimed, "I tell you what, old man; we'll carry right on, now, through the night. We're not in a hurry, so we'll get as much sailing as we can." ... Then, with my last ounce of failing strength, I sat up and denounced him as an assassin.
After passing a night indescribable, lying on the shelf--I mean berth--I was put ashore at Portland next morning. Should like to have procured dear old Bigheart a government appointment there for seven years, as a due reward for what he had been making me suffer.
MY YOT
What makes me deem I'm of Viking blood , A briny slip of the British brood? My Yot!
What makes me rig me in curious guise? Like a kind of a sort of--I don't know what, And talk sea-slang, to the world's surprise? My Yot!
What makes me settle my innermost soul On winning a purposeless silver pot, And walk with a nautical roll? My Yot!
What makes me learned in cutters and yawls, And time-allowance--which others must tot--, And awfully nervous in sudden squalls? My Yot!
What makes me sprawl on the deck all day, And at night play "Nap" till I lose a lot, And grub in a catch-who-can sort of a way? My Yot!
What makes me "patter" to skipper and crew In a kibosh style that a child might spot, And tug hard ropes till my knuckles go blue? My Yot!
What makes me snooze in a narrow, close bunk, Till the cramp my limbs doth twist and knot, And brave discomfort, and face blue-funk? My Yot!
What makes me gammon my chummiest friends To "try the fun"--which I know's all rot-- And earn the dead-cut in which all this ends? My Yot!
What makes me, in short, an egregious ass, A bore, a butt, who, not caring a jot For the sea, as a sea-king am seeking to pass? My Yot!
THE RULE OF THE RIVER
The rule of the river's a mystery quite, Other craft when you're steering among, If you starboard your helm, you ain't sure you are right, If you port, you may prove to be wrong.
"THE USUAL CHANNEL"
To what snug refuge do I fly When glass is low, and billows high, And goodness knows what fate is nigh?-- My Cabin!
Who soothes me when in sickness' grip, Brings a consolatory "nip," And earns my blessing, and his tip?-- The Steward!
When persons blessed with fancy rich Declare "she" does not roll, or pitch. What say--"The case is hardly sich"?-- My Senses!
What force myself, perhaps another, To think "The donkey-engine is our brother"?-- Our Feelings!
And what, besides a wobbling funnel, Screw-throb, oil-smell, unstable gunwale, Converts me to a Channel Tunnel?-- My Crossing!
AT GORING
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