Judge — 1889 — page 40: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

BEST THINGS ANACREONTIC. Fillhigh the bow!! Farewell to sor Farewell to every carking care! The heart that dreads the coming morrow Hath madc its sorrows double here ! Let every cup be overladen With rosy grapes’ most fragrant dew We'll pledge a toast to every maiden, To every maiden, false or true. Nor scorn the aynhs who spurned our flame, le ourselves for loving blindly, Since constancy is but a name. So we will drink and sing in chorus To those who never gave us pain Those kindred souls who went And, drinking, have them bac Then, whilst their spirits hover round us, We'll live our happier moments o'er, And bless the vines that now surround us With all those joys that are no more ! JAMEa JAY O'CONNELL CONLIN’S MISTAKE. “It wor this w Dinny. Oi woron me way from me wor-rk haulin’ sand fr O'Brien the conthractor, an’ me way led me by shtreet Oi niver wor on befoor. — Jist near the carner Oi cocked up me eye an’ it fell on a sign-boord hailed over a bit of a shtore. “Tt’s the devil’s owh poor reader Oi am, me boy, but Oi got on th’ sign. “McRooney, , to the best of my eyesight. Oi seen a few odds’n inds 0’ ghroceries in the windy, an’ havin th’ remim- branche av a pound 0’ tay th’ ould ‘ooman wor axin’ me for in th’ marnin, Oi wint in th’ dure. he v t shmall bit ava dar-rk complected felly sittin’ on a box it * Oi says, says I, ‘Good- avenin’, Mishter McRooney ; how do the tay mi be th’ day?” “Wid that, Dinny, Oi got’ a clump on the hid o’ me thot would rock, an’ the foorst t'ing Oi knowed Oi wor aisin’ mesilf on inthre av th’shtrate pickin’ shplinters out o° me thot haythin McRooney yellin’ the loongs out ay him fer “Oi'm here now, Dinny, an’ yez kin bet yure life it il be a day befoor Murty Conlin mish: ikes a Roman Oyetal n fera) “It wor flour pipe-stems called * maccyrooney’ he wor sellin, me thot put an insult to him be callin’ him out of his nem! Whenever a man offers you something for nothing you may be reasonably sure that his style of philanthropy works both ways. A CONEY ISLAND RATTLER. Cooley has taken his western friend to “the quietest place on the beach” for a little symposium, PROPRIETOR OF BOWLING ALLEY (next door)—\+Chentlemen’s, ohf der game desturbes you ve vil use all der shmall pails, ain'd it?* FROM JUDGE. AT THE CLOSE OF THE DANCE. Mr. Corser (masier of ceremonits)—‘I'se godder word t's: yo’, Mistah Yelks! Mr. Yet Spittum out.” Mr. Corsner—‘* Yo’ darnced d las’ set wiv Deac. Sarker's gal?” Ma. Yerks Umph.” Mr. Corsi! Whadjer say t’ d’ gal when yo’ crossed ober quirl ob d’ reel?” Mr. Yetxs— Hol’ on, now ! who's epee for dis ’vestig- ation ?” Mr. Corsner—‘' 1 is. Mr. Yetxs—‘‘ Well, den, whadj ? Mr. Corsuer—‘'S’ here now, ‘el I don’ wan’ no iccumnagatin’ ob dis mattah ! Wen yo’ tunned d’ cohner down b’ dat Hoskin’s gal didn’ yo chuck out a whispah t’ d’ fec dis yar ball ’minded yo’ ob a crow s ck bi htnin’ 2” Mr. Yerxs—‘‘ Dats mergin on whad ‘rs: Mr. Corsner—* Pull razzers Mr. YELKs Hol’ on! Yo'se gittin’ flustid, Mr. Corsher. Did yo’ eber see d’ sit'wation whad ’r mentioned?” Mr. Corsuen—‘‘ Nopey ; budder don’ wan no spcrities on my man’gemunt ob dis yer darnce ! Dat ‘r don't, yo" brack sludge, dat ’r don’t!” Mr. Yetxs— (Use snuff? Hit's good fer d’ smeller.) Lis’en. Wen d’ c sees d’ lightnin’ come, a-chum-pah ! down interd’ roost, whad’ do? Whad's dey do, Mistah Corsher? Why, all d’ crows wha "tat et still wiv dar w: d’ shoutin sr up, Mistah Corsher CHECKED IMPETUOSITY. Mk. Mutvey —"tDo you know what the French is for ‘1 love ?” TE. By the way, do you happen to know whist ans ‘the * I believe.” WITH THE JUNKMAN. Cirizex—** What will you give for that 2” I don’t buy second-hand musical instruments.” hat is no musical instrument. It is a student's lamp that the hired girl lassoed with a dusting and yanked off the mantelpie I offer it to you as old mi Juxxmax—‘‘ Excuse me, sir; I thought it was a B flat cornet.” NOT TRUE BLUE. al Wagys pass a blue-ribboned pug, which grow rlily and prolonged " ages, with pathos; "a blue-ribbon disciple that rushes the wa ler at such a rate.” CRUSHED. He loved a blushing maiden, Her father moved the lever, But his soul was full of fear, And before the day was done So he spoke into a phonograph ‘That phonograph was guarded The words he'd have her hear. By a bull dog and agun, comicbooks.com