"Observe, the audience is in pain
While Punch is hid behind the scene,
But when they hear his rusty voice,
With what impatience they rejoice!
And then they value not two straws
How Solomon decides the cause;
Which the true mother,—which pretender,
Nor listen to the witch of Endor.
Should Faustus, with the Devil behind him,
Enter the stage, they never mind him;
If Punch, to stir their fancy, shews
In at the door his monstrous nose,
Then sudden draws it back again,
Oh! what a pleasure mix'd with pain!
You every moment think an age,
Till he appears upon the stage:
And first himself you see him clap
Upon the Queen of Sheba's lap.
The Duke of Lorraine drew his sword:
Punch roaring ran, and running roar'd,
Reviles all people in his jargon,
And sells the King of Spain a bargain:
St. George himself he plays the wag on,
And mounts astride upon the dragon:
He gets a thousand thumps and kicks,
Yet cannot leave his roguish tricks;
In every action thrusts his nose,—
The reason why no mortal knows.
There's not a puppet made of wood
But what would hang him, if they could;
While, teazing all, by all he's teaz'd,
How well are the spectators pleas'd;
Who in the motion have no share,
But purely come to hear and stare;
Have no concern for Sabra's sake
Which gets the better, saint or snake,
Provided Punch, for there's the jest,
Be soundly maul'd and plague the rest."[1]
- ↑ If the curious reader wishes for it, he will find a history of this poem in the eighth number of the "Intelligencer."
