Page:Punch (Volume 147).pdf/121

July 29, 1914.



(Suggested to a slightly Hibernian brain by the recent ebullition of generosity on the part of the popular press, which insures its readers against holiday accidents whilst boating and bathing.)

I bolt from this city of vapour
 * To bite the salubrious breeze,

Do you know why I gambol and caper
 * And plunge with a shout in the seas
 * Twice the lad that I was
 * For a lark? It's because

I subscribe to that bountiful paper,
 * The Blare, if you please.

For I know that if currents are shifty,
 * If cramp should arrive unaware,

I shall die, but my end will be thrifty,
 * And my host (being also my heir)
 * Will be amply consoled
 * By the thought of the gold

(Which amounts to two hundred and fifty)
 * He'll get from The Blare.

"Pray take from your forehead those creases,"
 * I cry to my friend on the yacht,

"I admit that the mainsail's in pieces
 * And most of the sheets in a knot;
 * But remember that if
 * We go ponk on that cliff

It's The Blare will be paying your nieces
 * A nice little pot."

But whatever may crash into cruisers
 * Or wherries when I am afloat,

When the waves have destroyed me like bruisers,
 * I call on my country to note,
 * If The Blare should pretend,
 * When I've passed to my end,

I was one of its constant perusers,
 * It lies in its throat.

To my tenantless rooms in the City
 * The rags have been sent, and it's there

That I'll burn them unopened and gritty
 * Or, if (and it's little I care)
 * I am whelmed in the wave,
 * I shall laugh from my grave

At the blow that I've dealt the banditti
 * Who publish The Blare.

 "'With one accord they all say, Welcome to Ireland! 'No more delightful place,' says Mr. Birrell: 'A kindly welcome everywhere,' says Mr. Devlin; 'The most peaceful place in the world,' says Mr. Redmond.'—Daily Graphic."

Mr. has overlooked the Balkans.