Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, August 10, 1895 (Illustrated)

Tell me not, in Summer numbers,
"Holidays are but a dream!"
If you hold that vacs are slumbers,
Well—things are not what they seem.
Cook is real! Gaze is earnest!
And the earth's end is their goal;
"Bust" thou art, and "bust" returnest,
Sing they to the tripper's soul.
Not enjoyment—rather, sorrow
Greets the tourist on his way;
His to toil, that each to-morrow
Find him farther on his way.
Tours are long, and Time is fleeting,
While we dire discomfort brave;
In globe-trotting, record-beating,
Pleasure surely finds its grave.
Let us, still, each town be "doing,"
Since "tow-rowing" is our fate—
Then, half-dead with guide-pursuing,
Brag o'er those at home who wait!
"Forwood Boys."—Sir Arthur Forwood, the new Baronet, observes the Day-by-Day-istical writer in the Daily Telegraph, "is not to be confounded with his brother, Sir William Forwood." Why not? Why interfere with the liberty of speech on the part of some Radicals, who might say "Confound 'em both!" Or, in the words of the National Anthem, "Confound their politics."

Omitted from the Gracious Speech of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales at the opening of the Southampton New Dock.—"I appear here as the Judge, at whose word the prisoner is to be let into the dock, and, subsequently, let out again. Ladies and gentlemen, the prisoner is—the water." (Cheers.)