Summary

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

To his home in far Hawarden, where hearts will rejoice
To welcome McGladstone, the Chief of our choice.
Midlothian no more! 'Tis a sorrowful cry,
And we gaze on the waves, and we glance at the sky;
We shall long, when clouds darken and wild waves o'erwhelm,
For his voice through the gale, for his hand on the helm.
Now we shout through the shadows, with tears in our voice:
Farewell to McGladstone, great Chief of our choice!
Midlothian no more! Faith, we fancy we hear
The cry of the Chieftain who never knew fear,
Stout still through its sadness, "Keep up the good fight!
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

She split sides, convulsed in a take-offish murmur, a roll here, a roll there, rib-tickling with eyes goggling on the forefront of a sentence all rags, tags, and splutters like a jerry-builder gaping at a waste land pegged out in plots, foundations on the dig, and auctioneer prowling hither thither, hammer ready for the "gone" which shall spin a nobody's land into a somebody's money passing over counter or otherwise pocket to pocket, full to empty or almost empty, with a mowling choke-spark of a batter-foot all quills for the bean-feast.
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

The stout are candid puff-balls blowing in an open sea of purposeless panting, hard to stir into an elephantine surging from arm-chairs; and these are for frock-coats, and they can wear watch-chains. So these boys understood it. Murat here, Murat there, Murat everywhere, with Shalders a-burst at the small end of a trumpet, cheeks rounded to the full note of an usher's eulogy, like a roar and no mistake, arduous in the moment, throbbing beneath a schoolmaster's threadbare waistcoat, a heart all dandelions to the plucker, yellow on top with white shifts for feather-fringe
Source: Gutenberg

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