Christmas, 1889.

Observer, Volume 9, Issue 574, 28 December 1889, Page 3

Christmas, 1889.

The ' Gl^erver's ' Christmas Wishes{Dedicated to Ediior, Proprietors, Authors, Advertisers, and Readers.)^ (By W. B. Wills.) 'Tis the eve of all eves — the best of the year, That rocks to sleep all the sins we've done, And brings us love and the best of cheer, And kindly thoughts for the helpless one. It brings back a thought of the early days — A poetic thought (and that seldom pays) ; Ah ! it carries us back to that mystic time When Christmas Eve was frosted rime (rhyme.) And so we thought, this night of all nights, Of those early days, and the bitter fights We fought with the critics — ay, fought and won— (Like a pigmy shaking his fist at the sun), And we felt so braye — why, the world was ours ! With its beef and pudding, as well as the flow'rs, And we said, ' This world would be grand and true If Kelly and Battlf would rise our screw !' Now the ' devils ' were waiting (the printers, of course), And were shouting for ' copy ' till each throat was hoarse ! And our pen was co weary, yet how could we leave Our bosses and readers without Christmas Eve ? So like * Mark Parish's Berries and Cream,' We had good grounds for our Christmas theme ! At last we started, and scored a point, Like a butcher, and he's never short of a | joint '; But without self praise— for now, be it said. We rise like the ' Bakers ' — always well bred, On every occasion ; and again, let us say With Ambury and English we've a milky way, And so soar aloft ; yet not angels indeed, For we patronise Dalton and sport in his Tweed {Not Scotia's great river) Scots love in their pride, But mash with the girls in a coat from Me Bride ! So we wish for the peace (of roast beef) to you all, To Winter that smiles like a fine summer's fall ; To Turner— may he turn away melancholy ; To Ross, for his Patties are all really Jolly ! To Monty, with handsome and smiling young face, And benedict 810, who draws with such grace ; To the bosses, tired out, no doubt, with the worry; To Gulliver, Trent, Tim Doolan, and HtTRRY. Dear me ! what a loss — the worst of all losses), Had I forgotten the boy who bosses the bosses ! ;So God bless 'em all (with cherries, all ripe), For the dear little angels who set up the type ! And now be it said, there's no paper, och-hone, That's got better men with such Wills of their own !