Three Bankrupts were figuring in the Gazette On a Tuesday night when the sun went down, And the women were weeping and quite in a pet, For the dresses they never will show to the town; For wives _will_ dress, though husbands _can’t_ pay, And Bankruptcy’s surely the pleasantest way To get rid of the bill and the dunning. This parody, with three appropriate illustrations, appeared in _Punch_, November 27, 1858. ―――― THE FOUR FISHERS, (Who caught nothing) Four Merchants who thought themselves wisest and best Of all the folks in Liverpool town, To the EMPEROR LOOEY a letter addressed, Intended to do him uncommonly brown: “We’ll sound his plans so dark and so deep, From Liverpool brokers no secret he’ll keep,” Said they, in their Lancashire toning. Four Boobies went sniggering round all day Among the folks in Liverpool town, And thinking that none were so clever as they, And how they should come to a great renown: “We’ll strike LORD PALMERSTON all of a heap, And show we can catch a French weasel asleep,” Said they, their impertinence owning. Four asses they hung down their lollopping ears, When the post came in to Liverpool town, And brought them a letter whereof it appears Those donkeys could’nt translate a noun. For LOOEY knows well how his secrets to keep, And the Liverpool brokers unluckily reap A harvest of jeering and groaning. _Punch_, December 17, 1859. (During the ridiculous panic about a supposed imminent French invasion in 1859, four Liverpool gentlemen wrote a letter to Napoleon III. asking him to publicly declare what his intentions were towards England.) ―――― THE LASHER AT IFFLEY. Eight coveys went out in their college boat, And they feathered their oars as the water they cut, Each thought of the races, and what they would do, And Harvey stood watching them out of the gut. For men must row and coxswains must steer, And carefully too, as the races draw near, While the lasher at Iffley is moaning. These eight coveys went into training one day, And they trimmed their boat, though at first it felt queer Their pipes and their baccy were soon put away, And they stuck to their steaks, and their chops, and their beer; For men must train and coxswains must steer, And if they don’t train they’ll get bumped I fear, While the lasher at Iffley is moaning. The races came on, and the guns went off, The crew now are spurting――the boat does jump, Their friends too are shouting, and waving their hats For those who will never submit to a bump.