PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 109. SEPTEMBER 28, 1895. SCRAPS FROM CHAPS. Aston-ishing!--The English Cup, won by the Aston Villa Football Club last year, has been stolen. Between boots and football a strong affinity exists; and it appears that a _cordonnier_, a member of the club, obtained a loan of the trophy, which he proudly placed in his shop window. On a pedestal, in the midst of all sorts and conditions and sizes of shoes, it stood in silvery splendour--a sovereign, as it were, o'er a kingdom of soles--and was the gaping admiration of the "idle progeny" of the neighbourhood, who, as is well known, evince ever an absorbing interest in all things appertaining to "the rolling circle's speed." And the knight of the Soccus and Cothurnus, the adept constructor of JESSAMY'S slipper and GILES'S "hobnailed," the owner of the store, lulled himself to sleep singing "Dear little Boot-ercup, Sweet little Footer-cup," and dreamed that the goal of his ambition had been reached, and that he had received the appointment of Soler and Heeler Extraordinary to all the Football Clubs of the United Kingdom. But, alas! he awoke one morn to find that a burglary had been committed, and that the Cup had vanished! "It would appear," says the _Liverpool Courier_, "that the thieves _wanted the cup for the value of its silver!_" Oh! impossible! Gentlemen who thus acquire valuable articles of gold or silver do so not for the coarse gratification of an _auri sacra fames_, but rather for the satisfaction of an artistic craving, a laudable desire to contemplate, in poetic solitude, the beauty of the objects. * * * * * [Illustration: THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE. _Tam._ "SAE YE'VE GOTTEN BACK, SANDERS?" _Sanders._ "'DEED, AYE. I'VE JUST GOTTEN BACK." _Jamie._ "AN' HOO DID 'E LIKE LONDON?" _Sanders._ "OD, IT'S AN OOTLANDISH PLACE YON! THEY TELL 'T ME THEY COULDNA UNNERSTAUN MA AWCCENT!" _John._ "AWCCENT! I NEVER HEARD TELL THAT FIFE FOLK HAD _ONY_ AWCCENT!"] * * * * * "BY PROXY." More lovely than the summer morn That floods with light a southern shore And smiles upon the yellow corn Thy sister is, O sweet LENORE! And yet, LENORE, dost thou not guess What draws me now from her to _thee_, What prompts me thus _thy_ hand to press, And from _thy_ lips seek Fate's decree? Call me not fickle; for I'll love With fondness growing e'er more fond; More tender be than gentle dove Tow'rds her I prize all else beyond. Dost thou not guess--or _wilt_ thou not-- The thoughts that in my bosom dwell?-- Then "lend me all the ears you've got," And I'll the mystery dispel: More lovely than the summer sky Your sister is, whom I adore! I would propose--but I'm too shy; Pray _ask her for me_, kind LENORE! * * * * * FINAL "VALKYRIE--LONDON" DECISION.--"Quoth DUN-RAVEN, 'Never more!'"