Unclean! Unclean! 'Twas the old lepers' cry, You'd silence them and call it--purifying! Drive swine possessed of devils from their sty, And bid them spread infection as they're flying! Did some steep place lead down into the sea Of dead oblivion and sheer extirpation, 'Twere well to scourge them thither. What if, free, They carry foul contagion through--a nation? Thousands of fellow-creatures flung from work At the mere pen-stroke of a hasty censor!-- An unconsidered trifle Zeal may shirk! But Sense may not, nor Justice! They are denser Than _Punch_ imagines, our new Bumble-band, If Mistress PRY'S decision they abide by; But _should_ they fail us, _Punch_ throughout the land Will wake the People prudes and prigs are tried by! Petticoat-government, PROWLINA PRY, Of this peculiar sort will scarcely suit us. Such cases clear collective sense must try, Not a she-DRACO or a lady-BRUTUS. To sweeten our poor world we all may strive, But life's not one long Puritanic Sunday; And the great World while manhood is alive, Shall not be wholly swayed by Mrs. GRUNDY. PROWLINA PRY Society's festering ills Will not be healed by your pragmatic plaster. Tare-rooting that the growing corn-crop kills Was not the plan or counsel of the Master. You with rash hand would wield the whip of cords _He_ raised but once in righteous indignation. Heed the great lesson that the fact affords, And leave our woes to Wisdom's mild purgation. * * * * * [Illustration: MRS. PROWLINA PRY.--"I HOPE I DON'T INTRUDE!" THOUSANDS OF FELLOW-CREATURES FLUNG FROM WORK AT THE MERE PEN-STROKE OF A HASTY CENSOR!-- AN UNCONSIDERED TRIFLE ZEAL MAY SHIRK! BUT SENSE MAY NOT, NOR JUSTICE! THEY ARE DENSER THAN _PUNCH_ IMAGINES, OUR NEW BUMBLE-BAND, IF MISTRESS PRY'S DECISION THEY ABIDE BY; BUT _SHOULD_ THEY FAIL US, _PUNCH_ THROUGHOUT THE LAND WILL WAKE THE PEOPLE PRUDES AND PRIGS ARE TRIED BY!] * * * * * TO A VENETIAN POLICEMAN. [The _guardia municipale_ of Venice is now dressed like the London policeman.] That afternoon when first you burst Upon my quite bewildered eyes, I seemed in London; you are too Confusing in that strange disguise. The very clothes of blue! It's true In black kid gloves you are arrayed, No truncheon at your side you hide, A sword is openly displayed. That vile black helmet yet you get, Most dismal head-dress ever planned. In Venice this! Where once doge, dunce, Dame, doctor, all were gay and grand. In that prosaic dress! Oh, bless The man, why wear such awful things? In Venice long ago, we know, The costermongers looked like kings.