THE GAYMARKET, 1880!
Had I the power with prejudice to cope,
The breadth of Byron, or the pen of Pope,
I’d break a lance with Magisterial “rings”
That strain our laws, and muddle licensings. Men prate of virtue from their judgment seats, And turn Sin’s gutter flush into our streets; They close Casinos with a blush — ’tis true!
But make us curse a Place called — Waterloo!
If Vice must dance or dine, and Scandal sup, Which is the best? Proclaim? or hush it up? Can stern Morality her models meet
In Piccadilly or in Windmill Street?
Away with cant! Is Gay market less vile With new Criterion, or old Argyle?
Are cesspools worse for health, do you suppose, Than garbage rotting underneath your nose? Wherever flesh is weak and spirit willing,
Which is the best? — sin gratis, or one shilling? What have you done, you Magisterial Bench, Raising in perfect innocence a stench,
To cause on England’s forehead to be writ, In broad phylacteries, — Thou Hypocrite!
This you have done — you’ve closed in summer time The Garden’s purity, the Music’s rhyme;
You’ve crushed, from carelessness, its wit and grace, And given gutter-worship in its place.
You’ve raised Law’s cannons to bombard the ball, And left defiled the modern music hall.
On wivesʼ, and daughters’ cheeks you’ve raised a blush, As through the heated streets they drive and crush, Toʼ scape contamination as they pass
That Gay old Market where young flesh is grass!
Be wise, you Senators, he wise in time,
Hide from our eyes Society’s worse crime; Pour disinfecting fluid down the sink
At which the public laughs, policemen wink. Let us be human only, and despise
That Market festering beneath our eyes —
The painted cheeks, hoarse voices, faces fagged, Of those who, saved from dragging, should be dragged To silent places where neglect atones
For London’s insult on her paving stones!
This cutting from the New York Sun has been sent us. It is an advertisement, but what on earth does it mean? —
STOUT BOY to work on cake. — Apply, &c.
There must be lots of little New York Sons who would rush to the Office at once. But why “Stout Boy”? Stouter the boy, the less
cake? No; it’s another Boss Puzzle; and we give it up — to our readers.
Justin — “Just Out. ”
Have ye never read Justin McCarthy? His pen’s like a pencil Hogarthy.
He’s an impartial man As a Histori-an —
Now we’ve praised all that’s Just in McCarthy.
NOW PUBLISHING.
Chowser’s Canterbury Tales. — Evidence at the Election Com
mission. First Story, Not Worth a Wrap, by Cloke.
A PALPABLE HIT.
Stout Gentleman (whose play had been conspicuously bad). “I’m such a wretched Feeder, you see, Mrs. Klipper — A wretched Feeder! Always was! ”
Mrs. Klipper (who doesn t understand Lawn Tennis). “Indeed! Will, I should never have thought it! ”
Had I the power with prejudice to cope,
The breadth of Byron, or the pen of Pope,
I’d break a lance with Magisterial “rings”
That strain our laws, and muddle licensings. Men prate of virtue from their judgment seats, And turn Sin’s gutter flush into our streets; They close Casinos with a blush — ’tis true!
But make us curse a Place called — Waterloo!
If Vice must dance or dine, and Scandal sup, Which is the best? Proclaim? or hush it up? Can stern Morality her models meet
In Piccadilly or in Windmill Street?
Away with cant! Is Gay market less vile With new Criterion, or old Argyle?
Are cesspools worse for health, do you suppose, Than garbage rotting underneath your nose? Wherever flesh is weak and spirit willing,
Which is the best? — sin gratis, or one shilling? What have you done, you Magisterial Bench, Raising in perfect innocence a stench,
To cause on England’s forehead to be writ, In broad phylacteries, — Thou Hypocrite!
This you have done — you’ve closed in summer time The Garden’s purity, the Music’s rhyme;
You’ve crushed, from carelessness, its wit and grace, And given gutter-worship in its place.
You’ve raised Law’s cannons to bombard the ball, And left defiled the modern music hall.
On wivesʼ, and daughters’ cheeks you’ve raised a blush, As through the heated streets they drive and crush, Toʼ scape contamination as they pass
That Gay old Market where young flesh is grass!
Be wise, you Senators, he wise in time,
Hide from our eyes Society’s worse crime; Pour disinfecting fluid down the sink
At which the public laughs, policemen wink. Let us be human only, and despise
That Market festering beneath our eyes —
The painted cheeks, hoarse voices, faces fagged, Of those who, saved from dragging, should be dragged To silent places where neglect atones
For London’s insult on her paving stones!
An American Puzzle.
This cutting from the New York Sun has been sent us. It is an advertisement, but what on earth does it mean? —
STOUT BOY to work on cake. — Apply, &c.
There must be lots of little New York Sons who would rush to the Office at once. But why “Stout Boy”? Stouter the boy, the less
cake? No; it’s another Boss Puzzle; and we give it up — to our readers.
Justin — “Just Out. ”
Have ye never read Justin McCarthy? His pen’s like a pencil Hogarthy.
He’s an impartial man As a Histori-an —
Now we’ve praised all that’s Just in McCarthy.
NOW PUBLISHING.
Chowser’s Canterbury Tales. — Evidence at the Election Com
mission. First Story, Not Worth a Wrap, by Cloke.
A PALPABLE HIT.
Stout Gentleman (whose play had been conspicuously bad). “I’m such a wretched Feeder, you see, Mrs. Klipper — A wretched Feeder! Always was! ”
Mrs. Klipper (who doesn t understand Lawn Tennis). “Indeed! Will, I should never have thought it! ”