PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Volume 108, April 13, 1895
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
"I'LL SING THEE SONGS OF ARABY!"
IN PRAISE OF THE TRIANGLE.
In Praise of Try Angle.
Ye countless stars, both great and small,
The poetic sky who spangle,
Not one of you, that I recall,
Has hymned the sweet triangle!
With lyre and lute too long, too much,
Ye've thrid love's mazy tangle,
Yet unresponsive to your touch
Have left the sweet triangle.
And so the Muse commissions me
A lay to newly fangle—
I play the instrument, you see—
In praise of my triangle.
No tambourine, no minstrel bones
Give forth what Hilda Wangel
Would call such "frightfully thrilling" tones
As those of my triangle.
No self-respecting band may try
To play—'twould simply mangle—
Good music, unassisted by
The silver-tongued triangle.
In vain does Strephon with a lute
Round Phyllis always dangle;
She'd have him, if he urged his suit
With passionate triangle.
Full brave may bray the loud trombone,
Full sweet the cymbals jangle,
The bagpipes till they burst may drone,
So I have my triangle.
The stately cold piano may
All depth of feeling strangle;
To rouse deep feeling I essay,
Nor fail, on my triangle!
O'er rival claims of violin
And 'cello some may wrangle—
For pure expression nothing's in
The hunt with my triangle.
The diamond bracelet must exceed
In worth the silver bangle—
No instrument, string, wind, or reed,
Compares with my triangle!
TO THE GRIFFIN.
(By Calverlerius Rusticanus.)
Griffin, who benignly beamest
(So to speak) upon the Strand,
To the rustic eye thou seemest
Quite superlatively grand.
Griffin, grim and grimy Griffin,
Few, Joe tells me, will agree
With my artless numbers, if in
Undiluted praise of thee.