THE COMIC ALMANACK For 1838 |
  MANNERS MADE EASY;
OR, HOW TO COBBLE A SILK PURSE OUT OF A SOW'S EAR. " ?????? ??? ???????." Punctuality is essential to the character of a Gentleman. Early in the New Year send peremptorily for all your bills. If they do not arrive in a day or two, send again. By this exactness, you give your tradesmen confidence, and ensure their civility for some time, in the hope of a settlement. Having thus prevented any increase of charges, you can pay at your leisure. I have heard of a gentleman whose aversion to the sight of paper ruled in money columns had been indulged in as long as was consistent with his personal safety, who thus addressed a creditor for whom the shut sesame of "call again" had lost its charm. "After having for many years neglected my affairs, I have at length awakened to a sense of my error, and have resolved, by a vigorous system of economy, to retrieve them. Method, Sir, I now perceive that method is everything. From this day I set apart a certain portion of my income sacred to the payment of my debts."—"I am delighted, Sir, to hear of your noble resolution."—"I have made a schedule of all I owe, and shall begin at the top and persevere undeviatingly in regular though slow succession towards the bottom:—so that you see, my dear Mr. Figgins"—"Sir, my name is Wiggins"—"Wiggins! I had quite forgot; but I am sorry to hear it, very sorry—for my list is alphabetical. Had it been Figgins, or even Higgins, there would have been some chance for you, but the W's are so very low down.—No, I cannot say when I shall reach the W's." If you wish to refuse the request of an old friend or a poor relation, but can hardly screw your courage to the sticking-place, put on a pair of tight shoes, and you will find it perfectly easy. Never introduce your friends to strangers without their consent, nor permit such a liberty towards yourself, especially about November. Many have been entrapped into the hands of John Doe and Richard Roe thereby, unawares. Choose rainy days to pay your visits on. You will thus show your sincerity, and be less likely to miss callers at home. Take your cloak and hat into the drawing-room—to leave them below would be like one of the family—but, above all, carry in your umbrella; you have no right to leave it streaming in another person's hall. When you visit your maiden aunt, as you value your legacy expectant, preserve an amiable face, and keep you hands and feet to yourself, while her favourite tom cat reposes in you the height of his friendship by looking you full in the face and vigorously stretching himself by the aid of his ten talons hooked through your tight and tender kerseymeres. Though you may be a Nabob, or as rich as one, be not too anxious to parade your black servants before your friends, for both your sakes; they have, in general, two bad qualities—"stealing and giving odour."—Shakspeare, hem! Never marry a widow (unless her first husband was hanged), or she will be always drawing unpleasant comparisons. Never refuse a pinch of snuff, but do not become a snuff-taker: it is paying through the nose for a little pleasure. Avoid argument with Ladies. In spinning a yarn among Silks and Satins, a man is sure to be Worsted. It is common to speak contemptuously of tailors and dress-makers. This is bad taste; none but a rat would run down the sewers. When a lady sits down to the pianoforte, always volunteer to turn over the leaves. To be able to read music is of no consequence, as you will know that she is at the bottom of a page when she stops short. If you turn over two leaves at once, you will probably have the secret thanks of most of the company. When your friend enters the room instantly rise, and, though there may be half a dozen unoccupied chairs at hand, draw him with gentle force into your own. You will thus show the warmth of your friendship; for a damp seat may be as bad as a damp bed. In driving out never make a lady treasurer of the turnpike trusts;—or, when you want twopence for a toll, you have to wait while the reticule string is snapped in two; then, out comes a lace-edged white muslin worked pocket-handkerchief, a pair of lemon-coloured kid-gloves, a smelling-bottle, a bunch of keys, and, to crown all, a five-shilling piece to change. All this time you are stuck fast in the jaws of a turnpike gate, the Brighton Quicksilver in your rear, driver raving at your back, leaders snorting over your shoulder. Never plan a pic-nic, on pain of skulking about the town for six months after, dreading to meet, at every turn, the infuriated looks of the bereaved parents of half a dozen little innocents in white frocks and trousers, who have been washed away by an inundation; or to encounter the menacing glances of budding heroes, fierce in the rudiments of moustaches and chin-tufts, whose Celias and Delias have dropped into a decline through sitting on the damp grass at your instigation. Never hesitate to take a friend with you when you go out to dinner. Disappointments are so frequent that the lady of the house may perhaps be glad of a spare gentleman to fill up a gap. In carving, remember that "'twere well it were done quickly." He must be, therefore, the best carver who soonest fills the greatest number of plates. Waste no time in asking if people like a wing or a leg, this bit or that—many do not know their minds on any subject. Besides, as they cannot all have the prime cuts, nothing but discontent can ensue from giving them the choice. As too much of a good thing is morally impossible, fill the plates well—the delicate can leave half, and the modest are saved the unpleasantness of a second application; besides making the hostess your eternal friend, if, through your management in the outset, some of the dishes go away uncut for another day. Always return into the dish, before it goes from table, any portion of a ragout that your friends may leave in their plates. It is ten to one if your careless servants think of doing so afterwards. Instead of waiting for the dessert, let your children come in with the first course—they cannot be used to good society too soon. They will furnish topics for conversation, and if any present be vulgar enough to require a second supply of soup, when the tureen is at low water mark, they will probably relieve your embarrassment by upsetting it, and so dispose of the question. Help the darlings first—they are dearer to you than mere visitors, to whom you might, otherwise, inadvertently transfer some delicate bits on which the little cherubs had set their minds. Do not detain the toothpick long after dinner—it's unpleasant to be kept waiting for it. If a lady request you to select an apple for her, bite a piece out. How can you recommend it without? Always wipe the brim of a pot of porter with your sleeve, if you are about to hand it to a lady. HIEROGLYPHICUM IN FUTURO. The Queen of Hearts, Virgo, a bright constellation, (That she'll turn up a trump is the hope of the nation), By a whole pack of outlandish knaves who are suing, Is sorely beset, for she shrinks from their wooing. Each holds out a circle in which to entrap her, And ev'ry one hopes that he shall kidnap her. But occult operations behind the state curtain Shew an Elph, that makes their success very uncertain. Now, look to the left, and you'll see that EgalitÉ, That awful French thing, wants to pull down Regality; And, much to the horror of all Christian people, It tugs at the Church,—or, at least, at the steeple. A sage-looking wight, who is marking the "Movement," Seems to think it by no means would be an improvement; But as prophecies often show forth strange vagaries, And, nine times in ten, are explained by contraries, Let us hope we shall find that a people's affection Is the very best remedy 'gainst disaffection. May it crush the foul traitors who love revolution, And preserve all that's good in our wise constitution. JACK FROST. Hail, Snow! not the white head at Snow and Paul's, But speaking city-wise, that oddity Which rises higher as the more it falls, A paradoxial commodity. The schoolboy's long expected an-nu-al;— Abandon'd now are wicket, bat, and ball; Gradus, degraded—manual, underfoot— Rebate, at discount—routed, cubic-root. The pelted village idol, by the way, With hideous grin uplifts his hoary pate, To make a parson swear, or poacher pray, Or frighten some old woman passing late. Perchance a supple New Poor-Law Commissioner, On plans of pauper diet deep intent, May start and think of some white-haired petitioner, Turned out to starve by act of parliament. But what cares he for hot, cold, wet, or dry? Thanks to the Whigs, he gets his sal-a-ry. 12 Lavater d. 1801. "I think I've seen your face before." "WERRY LIKE." 26 Botany Bay colonized, 1788. Rejoice and praise, in merry lays, The wisdom of the wigs, Which kindly found, on classic ground, A paradise for prigs. Assembled there, in talent rare, Each knave salutes a brother, And friendly yet, their wit they whet, By practice on each other. 31 Young Pretender d. 1788. N.B. Race not extinct. MY DANCING DAYS ARE OVER.
By the Gentleman in the White Waistcoat. My dancing days are over now, My legs are just like stumps; My fount of youth dried up, alas! Wont answer to the pumps, Yet who so fond of jigs as I? Of hornpipes such a lover? Of gallops, valses,—but, alas! My dancing days are over. In feats of feet, what foot like mine (Excuse me if vain-glorious:) Like mine for grace and dignity No toe was more notorious. Oh! then what joy it was to hear Roy's Wife or Kitty Clover! But Drops of Brandy now won't do: My dancing days are over. My feet seem fastened down with screws, That were so glib before; And my ten light fantastic toes Seem toe'-nailed to the floor. I cannot bear a ball room now, Where once I lived in clover; Terpsichore quite made me sick; My dancing days are over. I used to dance the New Year in, And dance the Old Year out; Ah! little did I then reflect That chacun À son gout, All summer thro' I skipped and hopped, At Margate, Ramsgate, Dover. The year was then one spring—but now My dancing days are over. I'm eighteen stone and some odd pounds: So all my neighbours say. I'll go this moment to the scale; But I can't balancez. When in a ball room I appear, As soon as they discover My presence, off the girls all fly, My dancing days are over. I'm quite as fat as Lambert was, Or any old maid's spaniel; And when I walk along the street They cry, "A second Daniel!" And if I go into a shop Of tailor, hatter, glover, They always open both the doors: My dancing days are over. My college chums oft jeer at me, And cry, "Lord, what a porpus! Who'd take you for a Johnian? You seem to be of Corpus!" The stage-coachmen all look as if They wished me at HanÓver: The safety cabs don't think me safe: My dancing days are over. My great pier glass, that used to show My waist so fine and thin; Now, turn whichever way I will, Won't take my body in. My form, that once a parasol Would always amply cover, A gig umbrella now requires: My dancing days are over. In vain my hand I offer now; Away each damsel stalks; Chalk'd floors no longer may I walk, So I must walk my chalks. For me there is no woman-kind: None wait me now for lover. Maid, widow, wife, all fly—they know My dancing days are over! VALENTINE'S DAY. It's very odd, and even so, and why I can't discover, That I should wait, at Cupid's gate, the knocking of a lover; There's old Miss Young, with wily tongue, has tickled Captain Sly; The wrinkled frump will bear his stump, to get a Leg-a-cy. There's little Brown, I set him down for sure among the shymen, He is, altho' so short a beau, drawn in the knot of High-men. And Corp'ral Scout, to buy him out, the Widow does not falter, It hurts her pride that he should ride so long without a haltar: But pert Miss Green, just turn'd sixteen, she need not use such speed, To make a hash with Count Moustache—'tis Baby-work indeed. 14 Blackstone d. 1780. Judge Blackstone was a learned judge, As wise as ever sat, He wore his head within his wig, His wig within his hat. Judge Blackstone made a learned book On subjects, and on kings, And many reasons sage he gave For many foolish things. And many a wily way he found For lawyers to get fat in, And common sense, and English sound, He smothered in dog-latin. And simple ways made strange to see, As clients, to their loss tell; And many things that law may be, Altho' they be not Gos-pel. But since (see Job) we are but worms, Our destiny we fill, No doubt, in being gobbled up By some long lawyer's bill. 28 Hare Hunting ends. "Nemo est hÆres viventis."—Blackstone. FROST FAIR:
A LAMENT. BY TOM TUG. Vell, blow me tight, but here's a go! I can't hardly believe my eyes, It's a rig'lar Bartlemy Fair afloat, vith its stalls, and peep-shows, and t'ys, And vonderful lambs vithout niver a head, and vonderfuller pigs with three; And ships a svimmin' about in the air, instead of on the water, vere they orts to be; And chaps a selling peppermint to keep the cold out, vich is jest the vorst thing under the sun; And people a having their names printed on cards, vot can't read 'em ven they're done; And lads and lasses a dancing and singing, and up to all manner o' queer raps; And fat sheep a roasting whole, but not a bit for us poor amphibilous chaps; And fellers a playing at nine pins on the ice, vot can't stand on their own two; And ticket porters a stopping to see Punch, instead of going on their arrans, as they orts to do; And firemen a cutting about here and there, as big and grand as any lord or squire. Vith their red coats and badges—I s'pose they're afeard o' someb'dy's setting the Thames afire— And booths up and down of all sorts and sizes, till it looks like a Boothia Felix quite, Vith the moniment for the North Pole—that is, ven the fog and smoke'll let you git a sight— And the turnpike men off the warious bridges, vith nothink in the vorld to do all day But go to sleep on their rusty turnstiles, for in course people ain't sitch spoons as to pay To pass thro' their rewolving plate-warmers, ven they can go over the vater free; Vich I don't care so much for the bridge chaps, 'cause they does a good deal o' harm to we. As for Billingsgate Market, the trade there's downright flat, ruinated and dead; The fine fresh soles can't come up to be cried, and so they cries cast-metal skates instead. I alvays thought sitch things vos regilated by act of parlyment, and proclaimed by the Lord Mayor; I knows a bit o' Burnses's Justice, I does; and my opinion is, it aint a legle fair. It's a nice look out, ain't it, for a young man vot the vater's his only bread? I'm blowed if I don't think I shall cut the river, and take to the land instead, And labour for the adwantage o' science—body-snatching, I mean—for where's the harm, ifegs! Ven their ain't no further demand for skulls, to try to do a little bisness in arms and legs? As for the vind, I think it'll never be nothink but due nor' again: I often looks up at the weathercock, but, bless your heart, it's all in vane! Poor fellers! as Shakespear says, our occipation's rig'lar done up, and no mistake, Vot vith von thing or another (vich von misfortin, you know, alvays brings another in its wake). I don't like to say nothink unliberal or unvatermanlike, but this I vill say, the ruin of us is Them tarnation, smoking, steaming, fizzing, pothering, unnattaral-looking water-buses. Unnattaral, I say—for who ever meant wessels to go on wheels? or a nasty, long, curly, black, Stinking, pothery pennant o' smoke to take place o' the British Union Jack? And as if that vosn't enough, to spoil our trade and set all our poor old hearts a breaking, Mr. Brunel must come to finish us up, poor wretches! vith his horrid under-taking. Mister B. is a wery ambitious man, that's vot he is, and his work a wery great bore: But, thank heav'n! it'll be a long time before his tunnel (whatever his fame may do) reaches from shore to shore. I never gets a sight o' nothink good now—beefsteaks, nor anything else that's nice: No ingins (except steam ingins), and you may count my ribs (tho' you can't the ribs of ice). I did a job for a confectioner t'other day, as vos a trying to larn to skate, But his heels tript up right bang, and down he fell on the back of his pate. Vell, up I vips him in my arms, and carries him straight off home in a trice. I did think I should get a glass of grog for that job, but, says he, "Von't you take a ice?" "No, Sir," says I, walking off wery indignant, and looking jest as sour as sour crout, "Ven I takes a drop o' liquor I al'ys has it 'varm vith'—I doesn't like 'cold vithout.'" But it's no use talking, for talking only makes one more hungrier and more drier: And the heat of argiment's wery unlike the heat of a good kitchen fire. I'm as dry as an old boat, vot ain't good for nothink in life but to knock up and burn; And so I sees plain enough suicide's the only side on vich I can turn. Bless you, I'm as hollow as a drum, and as thin as any poor devil of a church mouse; So here goes for the fatal plunge—what's a plunge more or less to a man as hasn't got a sous? Here goes—but, oh, crikey! vhere am I to go to find a drop o' vater un-froze? Vell, that's the cuttingest thing of all—to think as a man can't put a end to his woes In his own native element, as he vos bred and born to, and lived in, man and b'y, Uppards of thirty-six year come next Midsummer (vich it never vill come again to I). Vell, I've tuck my leave of the river, and my poor miserable little funny, so pretty and red: I shall never shoot Lunnun Bridge no more, so I'll go and shoot myself instead. A CHARITY BALL—Dancing for the Million. THE GOOD OLD TIMES. Let others sing of times to come— Of joys that never will! My song shall be of days gone by: So, boys, a bumper fill To the good old times! oh, the good old times! Their like we ne'er shall see: The world was full of honest hearts, And life went merrily. In the days of youth, when all was flowers, And ev'ry month was May, And my spirits were light as the thistle down And my heart was always gay, I loved a fair and gentle maid With all the constancy That a mutual flame in youth can inspire: But, alas! she jilted me. Oh, the good old times! the good old times Their like we ne'er shall see: The world was full of honest hearts, And life went merrily. Friends of to-day, how vain are they! The partners of an hour, That fortune gathers round a man, As sunshine wakes the flow'r. My friend and I, in infancy, Play'd 'neath the same old tree: One home was ours for long, long years, Till my friend arrested me. Oh, the good old times! the good old times! Their like we ne'er shall see: The world was full of honest hearts, And life went merrily. My country's cause was always mine— Britannia, ocean's bride!— A patriot's name my dearest boast, A patriot's heart my pride. My leader was "the people's friend;" 'Twas thus he gain'd my vote: But they put him on the pension list, And the patriot turn'd his coat. Oh, the good old times! the good old times! Their like we ne'er shall see: The world was full of honest hearts, And life went merrily. 'Twas then I felt that honour dwelt In noble ancestry; That still in high and gentle blood Some secret virtues lie. My champion now I joy'd to hear Rail at the parvenu: But I soon found him on the Civil List— With his wife and cousins too. Oh, the good old times! the good old times! Their like we ne'er shall see: The world was full of honest hearts, And life went merrily. Disgusted with the city's vice I to the country sped. A simple husbandman, my life 'Mid flocks and herds I led. The livelong day I'd pipe and play, Or on some thyme-bank sleep: But at night they broke into my folds, And stole my cows and sheep. Oh, the good old times! the good old times! Their like we ne'er shall see: The world was full of honest hearts, And life went merrily. They told me 'twas my single state That harass'd thus my life; And to the altar soon I led A young and lovely wife. Oh! then what joys, what hopes were mine. Life seem'd a brighter heaven: But my wife eloped with her cousin Tom, And left me infants seven. Oh, the good old times! the good old times! Their like we ne'er shall see: The world was full of honest hearts, And life went merrily. MARCH,—St. Patrick's Day. MARCH
of Mind
in the
Privileged
Classes:
Marquess of
W——
and other
such asses.
? ? ? ?
? ? ? ?
MARCH
of
Musical Science
also
'mong high
and low,
who jump
Jim Crow;
? ? ? ?
the force of
taste
? ? ? ?
can
no further
go! TAFFY'S ANNIVERSARY. Come, Liberality!—I hail the name, Whether 'tis "all for love," or love for fame— Whether to strike the world is your desire, In printed lists of donors dubbed "Esquire;" Whether to govern in those stately domes Where Want's pale children sigh in vain for homes, And few but those who're blest with wealth and kin, And means to keep them out, can struggle in; Whether you boldly sport your own bank-notes, Or beg about for other people's votes; Whether you fill the presidential chair, Or join the throng because a Lord is there; Or, like some Lords, whose plan is rather funny, Put down your name, but never pay the money. But if, like some, the only certain way To reach your heart does through your stomach lay, Then mount the leek, a true Saint David's son, And let the fund afford a little fun, 'Mid warring knives, and charge of glasses' din, Turn out your purse, and be well lined within. Tough tho' the mutton, as a saddle, there, Like Bardolph, you can eat, and "eat and swear," And doom, with aching teeth and furious looks, The dinner to the sire of all bad cooks.— But now behold, the dishes clear'd and gone, Three dismal men who twine three tunes in one, And send forth sounds, with faces sad to see, Call'd by the chair, "The favour of a Glee."— Appealing lists appal you now, and they Are nail'd for pounds, who screw for pence all day. But hear the sweet applauses of the crowd, When Mister Secretary reads aloud That Smith or Jones has put down One Pound One; Then, if you've luck to get a hat, begone, Unless you longing linger near the spot To hear "Should auld acquaintance be forgot." ST. PATRICK'S DAY.
An Irish Mellow-day. It was Paddy O'Murrough that lov'd Mistress Casey: In ribbons for her he would squander his pelf; And he swore that without her he'd never be aisy, And sent her big praties to roast for herself. He said she was "Vanus, and Mars, and Apolly," And twenty more goddesses up in de skies: And never tired praising her swate little ankle, And her swate little mouth, and her swate little eyes. Says he, "Let de rest git dere bunches o' roses, And stick 'em so iligant top o' dere head: Och! Nora don't nade sich bamboozlificashin: Her own purty locks is as bright an' as red. "So, Nora, my darlint, now take pity on me— Ochone! but 'tis luv is de terrible smart! An och, bodderashin! 'tis Misther O'Cupid Wid his little shilaly is breakin' my heart!" 'Twas Lent when Pat said so,—but Nora said, "No, Sir;" She knew 'twas no use at that time to consent; But by Mothering Sunday Pat found her much softer, And before Lent was over, he saw her relent. The day was soon fixed—Easter Monday, be sure, The time seem'd to Pat a snail's gallop to go; "By de hokey!" says he, "is it fast days dey call 'em? For fast days I tink dey move murtherous slow." At length Easter Monday arrived bright and gay, Saint Patrick's Day too—nothing could be more pat To chapel away they all went—in a buss: For a wedding, what carriage so proper as that? So the knot was soon happily tied—tho' I know There are some in the world think it wrong thus to tie men; That the poor have no right to get married at all; And that low men have no sort of bus'ness with Hymen. Return'd, they sat down to an iligant feast: An divil the knife or the fork that lies idle; There's praties in plenty, pig-puddings, and pork, And a saddle of mutton, to match with the bridal. And then comes the dance, and the drink, and the toast: "Pat Murrough, your health—you're a broth of a b'y" Och! how tipsy they were! e'en the clargy himself, Like Pity, was seen with a drop in his eye. Then in comes Mick Larry, Pat Murrough's old rival, With a lot of his friends from Sev'n Dials direct; And och! what a scrimmige and murther intirely! And then the police comes, the peace to protect. Then straight to the beak Paddy Murrough is taken: Mick Larry himself 'tis appears against Pat; Says the beak, "You're with bigamy charged, Paddy Murrough!" "Och, big'my! 'tis little I know sure of that!" "What is it, your wurtchip?" says Paddy.—Says he, "'Tis a serious offence 'gainst the laws of the nation— To marry two wives, which is bigamy call'd— And the punishment death—or, at least, transportation. "So take leave of your spouses, for I must commit you!" "Stop a minnit, my jewel!" says Paddy, says he: "Sure I know'd very well what your wurtchip has tould me; And so, to be safe, I got married to three!" THE DARBY DAY. Come, Bet, my pet, and Sal, my pal, a buss, and then farewell— And Ned, the primest ruffling cove that ever nail'd a swell— To share the swag, or chaff the gab, we'll never meet again, The hulks is now my bowsing crib, the hold my dossing ken. Don't nab the bib, my Bet, this chance must happen soon or later, For certain sure it is that transportation comes by natur; His lordship's self, upon the bench, so downie his white wig in, Might sail with me, if friends had he to bring him up to priggin; And is it not unkimmon fly in them as rules the nation, To make us end, with Botany, our public edication? But Sal, so kind, be sure you mind the beaks don't catch you tripping, You'll find it hard to be for shopping sent on board the shipping: So tip your mauns afore we parts, don't blear your eyes and nose, Another grip, my jolly hearts—here's luck, and off we goes! SETTLING FOR THE HOAX. 3 Low Sunday. "Facile est descensus—" 8 Sir R. Peel resigned, 1835. To all the virtues of exalted station, He adds the greater one of resignation. 15 Clock with Sun. Caution.—Never undertake to get a lady's watch repaired, or you will be held responsible for its defects ever after. 24 Geological Society instituted, 1826. Kind friends in need are they who make no bones, When paupers ask for bread, to give them stones. ODE TO SIR ANDREW AGNEW:
AND ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. Sir Andrew Agnew, oh! thou scourge of sinners, Thou legislator against vice And nice Hot Sunday dinners! What shall we do Now thou art gone—thou and Sir Oswald [3] too— To make men fast and pray Each seventh day? Who now shall save us from sin's burning embers? Now that we've lost our two old Marrowbone members? But seriously, Sir Andrew, do you think There's so much harm in meat and drink? That a hot steak Ate once a week Shows a depraved state of society? That frizzled bacon Argues a soul mistaken? And—pray don't start!— That devil'd kidneys show a dev'lish heart? That there is irreligion in hot fry? And that cold pie alone is pie-ty? If so, begin, Sir, with the rich: ask these To give up their ragouts, and stews, and fricassees. I guess they'd think your application rather strange; But if you will work out your Bill, Believe me, you must take a wider kitchen range. Then, Sir, you think it wrong In 'bus or cab to ride along The streets, Intent on rural treats At Hampstead, Islington, or Turnham Green; But have you never seen The crowd Of knights and dames, on palfreys fierce and proud, That fill Hyde Park o' Sundays? I don't wish to tease, But, Sir, for riders such as these, There ought, I think, to be a rider to your Bill. No doubt it's very wrong, and shows but little nous, To go a tea-drinking, and making merry At th' Eagle, Rosemary Branch, or Yorkshire Stingo;— Chalk Farm's as vile, by jingo! There's something very black about White Conduit House. Richmond is sad; And Twickenham's as bad: And Hampton Wick is very wicked—very. But, Sir,—excuse the freedom of my pen— D'ye think that they Who spend the day At Tattersall's, in laying wagers On Derbys, Oaks, and Legers, Are better men? And then, the Clubs!—where gambling of all kinds, And vices such as daylight never saw, Are carried on behind cast-metal blinds— For these, Sir, can't you frame some new Club Law? Then, Sir, I know You vote rat-killing low; And wouldn't sit For worlds in the Westminster Pit. And so no doubt it is—extremely shocking; But so is cocking! And I have known full many a noble lord (I have, upon my word,) Fight cocks upon this day: So pray, Before for us poor folks you legislate, Just try to quell this main-ia in the great. Then music drives you mad: And, Scotchman tho' you be, I know You wouldn't suffer even a Scotch fiddle; And, as for "down the middle," And such-like tricks of Dame Terpsichore, I've often heard you say they're quite as bad: And that all persons merit a sound whipping Who are found tripping. (Àpropos— How you'd be shock'd in France, To see, Sir, a whole country dance!) Mind! I don't say but that all this is wrong: But is it worse, Sir, than the Sunday song Of Grisi, Albertazzi, Betts, Rubini, Lablache, or Tamburini? And would it not be better first to wipe out This sin among the high and mighty of the State, Before you put the poor man's pipe out? For my part, I think Vivi tu As wicked as All round my hat—don't you? And really I don't know How you can stop Jim Crow, And let the rich Carry their concerts, Sir, to such a concert pitch. And, if, Sir, I may speak My mind, your plan to gag our week (Tho' done, perhaps, with very best intention) Is but a weak invention. Besides, Sir, here's a poser,— At least to me it seems a closer, And shows a shocking lack of legislative skill— If nothing, Sir, 's to work from Saturdays to Mondays, Pray how's your Bill To work on Sundays? 3.Sir O. Moseley, who lost his election, they say, from having seconded Sir Andrews' Sunday Bill. BOWING AND HARROWING. MAY
the grand
Coronation
give joy
to the
Nation!
? ? ?
MAY
the
Queen
live
for ever!
huzza!
? ? ?
MAY
Tories
and
Whigs
run
no more
of their
rigs!
? ? ?
and
John Bull
have
less taxes
to pay! Oh! the Archers of Frogshot assemble to-day, And the fame of their doings has spread a great way; In lacings and facings they're beaten by no men, They've plenty of Beaux there, but very few Bow-men. There are Misses to hit, who no longer will tarry, And many Maid Mari-ans willing to marry; There's a Robin Hood fierce with nobody to fear him, And Tell shoots the apple of eyes that come near him; There are Foresters, famous for eating a dinner, And prizes, all sizes, but wanting a winner, And Dames in a pet if they get their pet-dog shot; And these are the deeds of the Archers of Frogshot. 13 Edmund Kean d. 1833. AMATEUR THEATRICALS. Behold the beardless Flat, a fancied Kean; The mawkish maid a stilted heroine; Tailors, retailers, spread dismay around, Heroes, by "This Endenture," basely bound, Braving the Chamberlain's portentous frown, Wield the baton, or mount the paper crown; Renounce their civic fetters for a throne; For horses barter kingdoms not their own; And find too late,—too soon, perhaps, by far,— The stage a half-way step from bench to bar. That Queen, in satin train, was trained in camlet, And he carves Ham who nightly cuts up Hamlet; The frail Jane Shore perchance is no impostor; While Gloster's Duke by day serves double Gloster; And 'tis but heaping Pelion on Ossa, If Ross, the barber, shines as Barbarossa. Then cheer up, Covent Garden! courage, Drury! Misfortune's storms in vain may vent their fury, When counter, kitchen, garret, bench, and stall, Send forth such champions to avert your fall. 31 Joe Grimaldi d. 1836. Farewell, transcendant Joe! Thou mirth-inspiring wight! Who, tho' thou wert so Grim-all-day, Yet mad'st us laugh at night. JOHN BUDD AND SUKEY SIMS. Susanna Sims was under nurse To little Messieurs Cole; And John Budd was a gardener, That lived at Camberwoll. And John would often say to Sue, "We're for each other made: For vy—ain't I a nursery-man, And you a nursery-maid?" He said she was his pink, his rose, His Clarkia Grandiflora: And swore no love had ever root Like to the love he bore her. Yet still, whenever he talk'd thus, She look at him quite gruff, And "Come now, Mister Budd," she'd say, "None of your garden stuff!" And every year, as spring came round, With flow'rs of every hue, He'd cull the fairest of them all, And carry them to Sue. But all in vain for him to bring The sweetest buds of May; For cruel Susan still turned up Her nose at his nosegay. Vainly in search of blossoms rare He wandered to and fro: She spurn'd them all; and every bloom To him was a fresh blow. And when he'd boast his pretty birds, Their songs and merry freaks, She'd say, "John Budd, I doesn't care A twopence for the beaks." The fact was this, another swain Had won fair Susan's heart— The fancy-bread man, Sammy Twist— For him she felt love's smart. And still, while "Oh! 'tis love, 'tis love!" Was running in John's head, Susanna Sims would sing, "Oh! tell Me where is fancy bread?" No doubt it was a puzzling state To be in—that of Sue: The baker's man was very poor, John Budd was well to do. One hour she'd say, "I'll marry Sam;" Another, "No, I wont." Poor Susan Sims! Love whisper'd "Dough:" But Interest said "Don't." At last Sue quite made up her mind In favour of the baker; And sent him word to say that he Might come next day and take her. Away they stole at early dawn: "And now, my pretty puss," Says he, "we'll have a cab." Says she, "No; I prefers a buss." They get in one of Shillibeer's, And rode along Fleet Street, (So call'd, I am told, because in it You never can go fleet,) When "Crikey! here's a pretty start! Vere are you going, miss, Vith that ere married man?" sang out The tiger of the 'bus. Then Susan gave a shriek, and fell Just like a piece of lumber; And Sammy blew the tiger up, And swore he'd take his number. And then Sue open'd half an eye, And cried, in accents crack'd, "Oh, Sam! how could you guilty be Of such a marriage act?" Then Sammy for the Doctor ran— At least he told 'em so. He went: but as for coming back, Alas! it was "no go." And when at last poor Sue got home, As pale as any lily, She found a letter from John Budd: And thus ran Johnny's billy:— "I seed you get into the 'bus, To be another's wife: And so resolved to go and end My wegetable life. I've tuk an ounce of pois'nous stuff; And when these lines you see, Dear Susan, I shall be no more— Alas!— THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. PAUL'S. Oh, Charity! celestial dame!—I cannot call thee maid, While ev'ry year thy children clear make such a grand parade. Ah! 'tis a glorious sight to see thy little pauper brats Parade the streets of Babylon like demi-drowned rats. Before the sun's begun to run, they're startled from their nest, And by their anxious mothers in the parish fin'ry dressed; And how those mothers' hearts must leap with gratitude to see Their offspring all so nicely clothed in that smart livery! The girls all clad in worsted gowns, mob caps, and aprons white, Like Lilliputian grandmothers,—a venerable sight: The boys in pretty blanket coats of green or brick-dust red, With tawny leather breeches, and a thrum cap on their head; And then that splendid pewter badge, worth all the rest beside; No medal worn by hero could inspire more honest pride. While to the neighbours they're a mark of pleasant observation, How must their happy mothers bless a parish education! It is so very handy too, when in a crowd they're brawling, To pick them out so easily, and save a world of bawling. Oh! merry day of jubilee to every little sinner, When ev'ry one receives a bun and goes without a dinner. Ah, happy England! thou'rt indeed a charitable nation, Thy charities thou dost without the slightest ostentation; How proud it makes a Briton feel to view this glorious sight, Tho' some there are too dull to share the exquisite delight. I heard a surly cynic once thus vent his angry spleen, As he with jaundic'd eye beheld the animated scene:— "If this be Christian Charity, who loves abroad to roam, "I wish, instead of coming here, that she had stay'd at home. "I'm sure she has no feeling for those wretched little dears, "Or she'd not make them into jam all in that place of tiers. "Whate'er Sir Robert Peel may say, or Tory folks may shout, "I'm sure the 'pressure' from within is worse than that 'without.' "But little girls may swoon away, and little boys may bawl, "None, in this age of intellect, now care for a child's call. "The cannibals, who eat up folks, have always made a point "To kill their two legg'd animals before they dress'd a joint; "But Christian anthropophagites possess a nicer goÛt, "And cook their flesh alive whene'er they make a human stew." Thus did he snarl and grumble at this glorious institution; Some enemy he must have been to Britain's constitution, For he who'd seek to work a change by pleading for humanity, Must either be disloyal or the victim of insanity. PROCLAMATION DAY. Hip! hip! hurrah! What a glorious day! They're proclaiming the Queen— Magnificent scene! Look—there sits the Mayor! That's his worship, I'll swear. The bells are clanging; The cannons are banging; The big drums are playing; The trumpets are braying; The cymbals are ringing; The people are singing, "Victoria victorious, Happy and glorious. Long-to-reign-orious." The Guards are advancing, Kicking and prancing. First the videttes On their chargers—such pets! Then comes the horse-doctor, As grave as a proctor: Then four pioneers, With their axes—such dears! And as sharp, ay, as needles. And then come the beadles (Messieurs Tomkins and Startin) Of St. James and St. Martin. After them the Guards' band, So fierce and so grand. The Marshals march next, With their tits much perplex'd. Then the Sergeants-at-Arms, Looking full of alarms; And the Heralds, whose dresses Get in terrible messes. Her Majesty's Garter Comes figuring arter, With his splendid gold tabard, And sword in his scabbard; And behind him is sergeants, Who to-day think they are gents. While the Horse-guards appear To bring up the rear. But let's change the scene a bit; And look at the Queen a bit, Giving audience to all, Great, middling, and small. Among the paraders Are the royalty traders: Her Majesty's hatter, Gunsmith, and cravatter, Royal builders of britchkas, Brutus wigs, and false whiskers. The Queen's top-boot maker, And her "own undertaker," Who says, with much fervour, He'll be "happy to serve her." Then at night, what a sight, When the lamps are a-light, Green, red, blue, and white; And transparencies bright Shine from attic to floor— There's a thousand or more. In every street Blazing lions you meet; And, in letters of flame, Victoria's dear name. But see! there's a row In the Poultry, I vow! The windows are smashing, The shutters go dash in: The mob's in a rage With poor Mister Page; Whose luminous star, With a "W. R." Has excited their wonder, And raised all this thunder. See! Page now, in tears, At the window appears; And, with uplifted hands, Their pleasure demands. "Shame! radical! traitor! Wretch! spy! agitator!" Are the sounds that arise: And at last some one cries, "What means 'W. R.' A-top of your star?" "Lawk! is that all?" cries Page, Almost bursting with rage, "Why, confound your necks! It's 'Wictoria Rex!'" RAIL-ROAD TRAVELLING. I vow I'll go, and it shall be so, and I've said it, Mister Snip,— This very day, come what come may, I'll have my railway trip. There's Mistress King has been to Tring, and thinks herself so knowing— I'm tired of waiting your debating, and it's time that we were going. Well, Duck, though I never did dabble in foreign parts,—Law, Ma! how I shall squeal when the engine starts.——For shame, child! as to fear it's nothing but a notion;—I declare I always feel the better for a little motion.——Pray, mister, do you call this a first-class carriage because it goes double fast?—No, ma'am, it's because we puts it behind, to be blow'd up last.——See, they're pulling us along with a rope! very odd, upon my word.—Vy, you carnt expect the hingins to go on their own ac-cord.——But just look round at Hampstead and Highgate, while they slacken their pace,—And see, they hook on the loco-motive! What's that, Pa? A thing they've a motive for hooking on at this place.——Here's Chalk Farm, where some run down a hill, and some run up a score!—And there's the famous tunnel! It looks like a bit of a bore.——Oh, dear! Oh, dear! how dreadful dark! I think I'm going to die,—And I'm so hot I can't say my prayers! but here's the light of the sky.——See what a hole in my parasole, burnt by a red-hot spark!—I only wish I knew who it was that was kissing me in the dark.——Sare! I vonder, Sare! ven dey vill put on de horses to draw!—Oh! horses don't draw here; they're all hors d'emploi.——But how the hedges run past, and the trees and the bridges, and the posts, and the cattle, and the people!—This is just like ploughing the air! Yes, and there goes Harrow Steeple.——On, on we spin, with a clack and a din, like a mighty courser snorting, blowing.—Well, how do you like the railroad now? Oh! I think it's the wonderful'st thing that's going.——Ladies, here's Watford; we can stop if you've had enough of your ride.—But perhaps you'd rather go on; there's a long tunnel on the other side.——Oh! I'm so frighted at the thought I can scarcely speak!—Gracious! I'm so delighted! I hope we shall stay in for a week.——Well, if that's the case, as you came out for a little pleasure, I shall leave you at the tunnel, and you can go through at your leisure. 20 Professor Playfair d. 1819. 28 Infernal Machine in France, 1835. THAT MISTER NUBIBUS. Reader, my name's Nubibus. I am "that Romeo." My ruling passion is a taste for the rurals. My love of green fields may be almost termed a green sickness. You may talk of your ottomans and your fauteuils, I never sit so easy as in a rustic chair. But, unhappily, my pleasure is not without a damper. The rain is my most mortal foe: my skies are always cloudy: my trees are continually on the drip: my Pan is always a Watering Pan. At the moment of my birth, even, it was observed that the watchman was going his rounds and crying, "Past four o'clock, and a rainy morning:" and many of my best friends think it likely that my last days will be accompanied by a drop. Last Friday was a notable instance of my unluck. The morning was most beautiful—sun shining, birds singing, weather-glass down at Stormy, and Moore's Almanack at Heavy Rain—everything, in short, promised a fine day; and I immediately dressed myself in my most summery attire, and set off to join Mrs. Timon Duggins's pic-nic party to Battersea Fields. I found all the company already assembled in her little parlour, in Greek Street, Soho, and I could hear them greet my arrival with, "Oh! here's that Mr. Nubibus! we're sure to have rain if he comes." However, I took no notice of their impertinences, but calmly brushed the dust off my gossamer pumps, to show that I had no fear on my own account: tho', sooth to say, I had taken care not to come without my old friend, my walking-stick umbrella. Well, off we set, took boat at Hungerford Stairs, and reached our place of destination without misadventure. Miss Arabella Dix was the first lady to land, which she did by stepping into a squashy place among the rushes, from which she came out with an abundant supply of mud and water, and not without an angry look at me, as much as to say, "Ay, it's all thro' that Mr. Nubibus!" But this was not the worst. Gallantry forbade that Miss Arabella should remain in her unfortunate dampness while there were so many dry gentlemen in company: and, as it unluckily turned out that mine was the only small foot of the party, I was obliged to give up my dry pumps to Miss Arabella; tho' I own it went to my very sole to do so. "Oh! how I do love the country!" exclaimed Miss Arabella, as soon as she had established herself in my dry shoes; "the sky, the water, the trees, how delightful!" I felt as if I could have hugged her. My taste to a T. "And there! there's a spectacle! that lovely rainbow!" I felt as if I could have committed homicide upon the provoking creature, and clenched my walking-stick umbrella with the force of a maniac. On came the rainbow; clap went the thunder; down poured the rain—cats and dogs, puppies and kitlings. All eyes were turned upon me reproachfully. Up went umbrellas and parasols; out came cloaks and Mackintoshes. An air of triumph seemed to pervade the company as they remarked that there were no means of shelter left for me. I let them enjoy their triumph for a while, and then I quietly unscrewed the top of my walking-stick umbrella. My walking-stick umbrella, did I say? Alas! I had brought my bamboo telescope instead. Young Ariel Hicks, a young gentleman of fifteen years of age, and as many stones weight, now offered me a share of his parapluie; but, as Hicks was only four feet two inches in height, and I stood five feet ten in my shoes (or rather, in Miss Arabella's), I was soon tired of doing penance in the form of a letter S, and boldly declared my utter contempt for all kinds of showers, and thunder-showers in particular. What made our situation still more provoking, was the presence of an opposition pic-nic party in the adjoining field, cosily enjoying themselves under a waterproof tent, from the entrance of which a grinning face would every now and then peep out, evidently in high glee at our miserable appearance. The weather getting clear, it was proposed to have a ramble among the green trees: but the Dryads and Hamadryads turning out to be anything but what their name imported, we were glad to escape from their dripping bowers with all possible speed. Hungry as wolves, and shivering with cold, we now addressed ourselves to Mrs. Timon Duggins, who had undertaken to be purveyor to the whole party. Mrs. Timon Duggins was as hungry as we. But where was "Mr. Gunterses young man?—Mr. Gunterses young man, that she (Mrs. D.) had ordered to be on the ground punctually at two o'clock?" Echo, and several of the young ladies and gentlemen answered "Where?" But still Mr. Gunter's young man appeared not. At last Mrs. Timon Duggins, employing one end of her spectacles as an eye-glass, exclaimed, "Why, there he is!" and there, sure enough, we saw him, standing with his baskets on his arm, watching the departure of the rival party, who were merrily sailing down the river to the tune of the Canadian Boat Song, sung by the whole strength of the company. The young jackal was soon summoned, and bid to spread the repast: but what was our horror on learning that he had mistaken the rival party for ours, and suffered them to eat up all our provisions. Half dead with cold and hunger, we turned the baskets inside out: but nothing was left except a few ices and a bottle or two of ginger-beer! By great good fortune one of the Twickenham steamers was just then going by, and as Ariel Hicks, who was an amateur sailor, had some acquaintance with the skipper, he succeeded in procuring us some prog from the vessel. We had scarcely got our knives and forks well fixed in it, however, when the rain again began to fall in torrents, and we were glad to get away to our boats and Mackintoshes. Our voyage home was not less disastrous. The boat had been filled to about ankle deep by the late heavy rains, and we were obliged to sit all the way with our feet held up above high-water mark—except those who thought proper to put them in the wet by way of relief. The next morning there was but one answer to all inquiries—"Our compliments, and we're very ill in bed of colds and rheumatisms; and it's all owing to that Mister Nubibus." CHEAP BATHING Now the Dog Days have begun, ten times hotter is the Sun. If, in walking Regent Street, crowds of puppies you should meet, do not kick the harm- less things, but recollect what Shakspeare sings, recollect the ancient say, every dog shall have his day. I scorn the rules of Fashion's fools, their scoffings and their sneers, To the ocean spray I haste away from people and from piers. I love to ride in the flowing tide 'mid the summer's gentle gales, And to seem the monarch of the sea, or at least the Prince of Whales. Like porpoise brave, in the briny wave, I flounder and I flirt, And now I stand upon the land—Oh, murder! where's my shirt? Yes, there it goes, and all my clothes—stay, sacrilegious wretches! Take coat and hat, and black cravat, but give me back my breeches! This is the spite of Mistress White—the foulest in the Nation— Because I scouted her machine; it is her machination. But, hark! I hear, there's some one near—in vain I hope to hide; They'll say I'm not a tidy man, for going in the tide. Oh! dire disgrace! I'll screen my face behind this fisher's basket, And those who do not know my name, I hope wont stop to ask it! 16 Andrew Marvel d. 1678. No wonder. Joe Miller d. 1738. No joke. 18 Rebel Lords beheaded, 1746. Treason doth never prosper—what's the reason? Why, when it prospers, none dare call it treason. 22 Gall d. 1828. Never suffer a phrenologist to pass judgment on your head, or, ten to one, you may hear something unpleasant. Pray, Ma'am, can you move ever such a little scrinch? Indeed, Marm, its quite unpossable for me to stir an inch.—Well, if I'd stay'd at Dorking I should have sat more at my ease, but I thought it best to leave such a nest, for we're all swarming alive with fleas.—Then I'll take my leave, Marm, to shift a little further from where you are sittin', for though I don't like to be crushed, I don't choose to be bitten. PLEASURING. Miss Henrietta Julia Wiggins, on her Travels, to Miss Adelaide Theresa Ditto, in Bucklersbury. With a short Postscript from Mamma, and another from Papa. "Ma chÈre Soeur—According to promise, I now send you the journal of my tour; but, hÉlas! if you expect it has been a happy one, you trompez yourself most sadly. Mon dieu! the sufferings we have undergone! Mais voilÀ the journal. "Monday, Sept. 1.—Embarked on board the "Emerald" steamer at London Bridge for Boulogne, at one o'clock in the morning, after having passed a miserable night in packing up, and trying to go to sleep in easy chairs. Pa complaining of symptoms of lumbago.—All the berths taken, mostly by gentlemen—or rather, by monsters in the form of gentlemen. Mon dieu! what brutes the English men are! to suffer us poor helpless femelles to pass the night on deck, while they are snoring away comfortably in the cabins! Ma's blue silk pelisse was soon put hors de combat by the nasty tar and stuff, and my new French-white bonnet was turned into a regular London smoke in ten minutes by the horrid chimney.—Ma has made the acquaintance of a very nice Dame FranÇaise, who speaks pretty good English, and abounds in anecdotes about la grande nation. Also, has kindly taken charge of one of Ma's sacs de nuit; as she says the French douaniers won't allow people to land more than one carpet-bag a-piece, and Ma not choosing to leave her valuables at the mercy of those vilains bÊtes, the custom-house officers. Moi aussi, j'ai fait connaissance with a charming fellow, the MarquÍs de Mandeville, a young militaire, in black moustaches and a green foraging cap.—Marquis beginning to make himself very agreeable; in fact, becoming quite amoureux, when both taken suddenly ill, and obliged to part. Ah! Adelaide dear! it's a sad change, from love-sick to sea-sick! French lady very kind, and asked me if I had the mal de mere—thought she meant "my mother's complaint," which you know is rheumatism in the hips—answered accordingly, and got horribly laughed at by a lot of rude fellows in make-believe sailors' jackets.—Ma next attacked—Pa next—tout le monde soon in the same plight. Sensation dreadful—headache worse and worse—Ma wanted to be set down at Dover, but Captain wouldn't hear of it. French lady very attentive—would fetch tumblers of brandy and water for Pa and Ma and me—couldn't drink a drop—she did, and wasn't sick at all. Obliged to stop my journal—so very ill. "Tuesday, Boulogne—Landed here half dead, having lost the tide, and obliged to pass another night at sea. All very ill. Pa's lumbago confirmed, and Ma's rheumatism trÈs mal.—Unable to go to Paris; and our places having been paid for all the way, obliged to forfeit the money; Pa very cross, Ma very uncomfortable. 5 o'Clock, p.m.—Pa has just been in to say that the French lady refuses to give up Ma's sac de nuit, containing all her valuables; and that, as it was landed in her name, there's no remedy.—A call from Marquis—advises us not to make a rumpus about it, for fear of being taken up as smugglers. His lordship's valet not being yet arrived, under the unpleasant necessity of borrowing five pounds of Pa. Pa very suspicious, until Marquis showed us his passport, where they have taken him two black eyes, a nose aquilin, black cheveux, and five feet three inches of taille. Only think, Adelaide dear! what a picture of a lover! "Wednesday.—Passed a dreadful night, not having been able to sleep a wink for the punaises. Ma bit all over, and her face as big as two. Moi aussi, my eyes completely swelled up, all but one little corner, just enough to see what a fright I am in the looking-glass. Unable to get any assistance from the people at the inn, our manuel du voyageur not containing any dialogue between a chambermaid and a lady bitten by bugs; and Pauline, Ma's maid, that she hired by advertisement, having left us the moment we landed, her only motive in engaging herself at all being to get her passage paid back to her native country.—Can't get anything that we can eat at the inn, and reduced to sea biscuits and water. I have again tried to make our wants known to the fille de chambre, but without success, they do speak such very bad French in the provinces—quite a patois, in fact. Hope we shall do better in Paris.—Marquis called, and recommended Pa to hire a valet de place. Kindly undertook to provide him one, who speaks French and English, and understands the horrible patois of the Boulognese. This will take a good deal off my hands, who am obliged to be interpreteur to the whole party.—Alexis, the new valet de place, arrives.—Got something eatable at last, and are to start for Paris demain matin. "Thursday.—Up at five. DÉjeÛner, and start for Paris at seven—Marquis in same diligence. Weather dreadfully hot. Rival diligence got the start, and will keep before us all day, the French laws not allowing one coach to pass another. Dust dreadful—and worse for us than any of the rest, as we had taken our seats in front of the voiture, for the sake of seeing the country—and, after all, no country to see. Proposed to some gentilhommes inside to change places with Ma and me; but met with a flat refusal. Begin to think French gentlemen are not much more poli than English ones.—Dined at Abbeville, and arrived at Amiens late at night, very tired and ill. "Friday.—Up at five, after a sleepless night. Started at seven. Heat comme hier—dust ditto: two diligences before us.—Dined, or rather table d'hÔte'd (which is a very different thing) at Clermont. Didn't eat an ounce all three of us, but obliged to pay five francs a-piece for our dinners—and, as we had no francs left, the people kindly consented to take English shillings instead.—Ma and I quite ill, from heat, and dust, and fasting, and one thing or another; and Pa's lumbago much worse since the heavy thunderstorm which soaked thro' his waterproof hat, and ran off his Mackintosh into his shoes, till they were all of a squash.—Seeing our distress, three French gentlemen inside kindly consented to relinquish their seats in our favour, an offer which we gladly accepted. The French are really polite, aprÈs tout!—10 o'Clock, À la nuit!—Arrived in Paris at the Hotel de Lyon, the Marquis very politely handing us out, and seeing us to our room.—Rather annoyed by Pa's coming in and kicking up a rumpus about the gentlemen who had taken our paid places on the premiÈre banquette, and who had left him to pay for the three insides all the way from Boulogne.—Marquis very aimable, and gave us all a pressing invitation to pay him a visit at his chÂteau in La VendÉe. "Saturday.—The Marquis to breakfast.—With his Lordship to the Jardin des Plantes, where we had no sooner arrived among the lions and tigers than it began to rain cats and dogs. The noble Marquis very kind in holding the umbrella over him and me, and sending Pa to call a coach at the neighbouring coach-stand. Pa trÈs long-tems away—at last saw him coming along in the custody of two gend'armes, covered with mud and dirt, and bleeding profusely. Learned that poor Pa, instead of calling 'cocher,' as he ought to have done, had called the man 'cochon,' which, you know, means 'pig;' at which the coachman at first laughed; but Pa persisting in calling him 'cochon,' he at last got down in a rage, and attacked Pa most furiously. I am sorry to say, poor Pa got terriblement maltraitÉ. Ma has been in fits ever since, and Pa won't be able to go out for weeks. Pour moi, I am as ill as any one can be—nothing but the Marquis's kindness keeps me alive...." "P.S.—Sunday.—My dearest child! Your unhappy mother sends you this. Your deluded sister disappeared last night with the Marquis de Mandevil, leaving this unfinished letter on her table, and your Pa and me both heart-broken. I am too ill to write any more. Your miserable mother, Bertha Wiggins." "P.S.—Monday.—Dear daughter! Your distressed father sends you this. Your unhappy mother eloped last night with that villain Alexis—and all the luggage. I have discovered that he and the Marquis are a couple of sharpers. A pretty week we have made of it! Your wretched father, Bartholomew Wiggins." COUNTRY COMMISSIONS. "Mr. Hume moved for a list of all Commissions issued between the 1st of April, 1833, and the 1st of April, 1837, and of the expenses incurred thereon." Parliamentary Register. Twenty times have I taken my pen, And began my dear Julia's name, Twenty times have I dropped it again, For I'm burning all over with shame. How lucky I am to possess A kind friend to rely on, like you! And—'tis shocking—I'm bound to confess That my billets are all billets-do. But to come to the point, dearest dear,— Your affection will pardon it all— You must know, the long thread of our year Is wound up by an annual ball. Only think! in this dismal abode To have nothing that's stylish or new! We are centuries out of the mode, Though we live in a manor, 'tis true. And I want a few trifles in haste; 'Tis too bad—for you've plenty to do— But I know you've such excellent taste, And I'll leave it entirely to you. So get me, from Waterloo Place, (What you pay I shall never regard) Twenty yards of the best Brussels lace, At exactly two guineas a yard. From Harding's twelve yards of French satin, That beautiful pearly-white hue— 'Tis a matter, I know, that you're pat in, So I'll leave it entirely to you. Of course, there can be no objection To make it a bargain quite plain, That if it don't suit my complexion You'll trouble them with it again. Five bouquets of roses from Foster's, And a circlet of white MaraboÛt— (I consider all others' impostors, But I leave that entirely to you.) Un oiseau paradis may be sent To surmount a chapeau paille de riz For mamma—for she's never content— How different, dear Julia, from me! There is but one man in the town, Who can make me a white satin shoe; Do find him, and send me some down, So I'll leave it entirely to you. Oh! a scarf I shall want, by-the-bye, Of that very particular hue Which belongs to "the Seraph's blue eye," (In dear Moore,) so I leave it to you. And now I'm equipped for my jig, I'll finish my begging petition— (Pa says I'm as bad as a Whig; Such a dab to get up a commission.) But I'll thank you to buy, for Miss Green A nice little stone and a muller; And just paper enough for a screen— Every sheet of a different colour. Here's a note for Miss White at the Tower; You must take it some day before two, For she always goes out at that hour, So I leave it entirely to you. If it's all in your way coming back, Just call at the Grove, Kentish Town, And look in at the school of young Black— His mamma wants to know if he's grown. And next summer, when Pa comes to town, He shall pay you whatever is due, If you'll send the particulars down; But I'll leave that entirely to you. SEPTEMBER.—Michaelmas Gander. 1 St. Giles. The faithful Scroggins lifted to the skies, A consternation in his Molly's eyes. 6. Stratford Jubilee, 1769. "Mother! mother! take in the clothes: here be the players a-coming!" THE HARVEST SUPPER. The latest load from the field is come, "Hip! Hip! Hip! for the Harvest Home!" The guests they throng to the feast in swarms, More men than manners, more chairs than forms; And 'twould puzzle a lawyer here to point, And prove that the times are out of joint. I love fat fowls in a bill of fare, Yet this for ever I will declare, That the dish, however it may be scorned, For a harvest supper is beef that's corned. I love a dame of the good old sort, The piano not her only forte, Her sons, who something know beside To break a pointer, drink, and ride; And daughters, who return from school, To feed the pullets, not dance la poule. There are some that gather, who do not grow, And some that reap, who are but sow-sow, But the honest farmer, blunt and plain, Who has never learned to drink champagne (Like some, or else I'm much mistaken, Who pinch the poor to save their bacon), May plenty crown his peaceful dome, And "Hip! Hip! Hip! for his Harvest Home." 15 Newspaper Stamp Duty reduced, 1836. Chancellor of the Exchequer brought to his last penny. 29 Michaelmas Day. De Goostibus non est disputandum. ÀPROPOS OF THE GOOSE. "Dear Uncle, accept our best thanks For your very nice Michaelmas treat; Such a beautiful bird I ne'er saw,— So tender! so young! and so sweet! My wife and myself both declare, Since we tied the hymeneal noose, We never before clapp'd our eyes On so fine—so delicious a goose! "The brats are all well. Little Sam Is a Solomon quite for his age: Such a mimic! We've serious thoughts Of bringing him up to the stage. He already takes off you and aunt, Her way of exclaiming "The dooce!" He can imitate cocks, hens, and ducks, Àpropos, many thanks for the goose. "Our eldest we've christened at last, After you and my uncles at York,— John James Paul Ralph George Job Giles Mark: And Eliza's beginning to talk. Little Arthur has lost a front tooth, And another is getting quite loose: They both want to know when you'll come; And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose. "Little Hal's as like you as two peas,— So lively, so smart, and so jaunty! And dear little Emily Ann Is grown quite the moral of aunty. Selina's translating in French The voyage of Mister PÉrouse; And Amelia has knit you a purse; And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose. "Little Ellen's begun to sol-fa, And her master, the Chevalier BÄÛll, Declares that he never yet heard Child sing so exceedingly small. Little Tom's quite a sportsman become; He has caught a young hare in a noose, And sends you the skin to have stuff'd: And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose. "Your godson's beginning to draw,— You remember the rogue—little Mike? He has chalk'd you and aunt on the wall; And really they're laughably like. Such spirits I never yet saw; He's just like a tiger let loose: And Sue means to work you a screen, And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose. "Your museum, I hope, goes on well: But, Uncle, take care of your eyes; And pray don't, with microscopes, look So much at those very small flies. I send you the horn of a deer, (I believe it's a species of moose,) And the quill of a real black swan; And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose. "I hope you ride out ev'ry day; It's the first thing on earth for the health, Without which, as I've oft heard you say, What's honours, and station, and wealth? But, dear Uncle, pray never more mount, That wild thing you bought of Lord Roos: But you are so exceedingly bold! Did I thank you before for the goose? "P.S.—Could you lend me ten pounds Till Christmas? My lease is just out, And I've no one to fly to but you: Dear Sir—By-the-bye, how's your gout?— The int'rest of course I shall pay, Five per cent.—Is your cough getting loose?— You can send it per post—and, dear Nunks, Many thanks for that duck of a goose." 1 London Parcels Delivery Comp. estab. 1837. TRIUMPH OF TEE-TOTALISM. I rite to inform you our caws is quite the top of the tree in these parts, nerely all the publicks is ruined and shut up quite private, the checkers is xchecker'd—the baileaves is in at the rosemary bush—and there's not a sole to shak ands at the Salitation—nothing but whimpering at the whine waultz, instead of dancing and tostication so the wendors of spirits is quite dispirited and at the hintermedihate nobody wont go to be drunk on the premises. Our parson hoo nose the sin of spiritual lickers as inroled isself and some of the jentry as hates gin as jined us, the sqwire too sais he will sine and sail with us as long as he dosnt go out of site of port. We holds quite a strong meeting weakly but drinks nothing but Tee total and as abolisht XX intire and marches quite connubial together round the pump to the tune of Andle's water music but we as now less occasion for the spout and shall soon dew altogether without my unkle which is a relashun you will be glad to hear for as we have left off our cups we have less need of the balls, but I am sorey to sea all our happytites is sadly hincreased witch is wery detrimental and hilconvenent at this critearyon of the ear. We was extorted last weakly meeting by a new member a norrid drunkerd but now quite a reform carrikter sins his money was all gone and nobody wont trust him. His discoors was quite headyfying for he is a tailer and goos about in the good cawse since he left off gozzling. Before he jined us he was alwise stupid drunk and beatin his wif and now he never gives his mind to licker. Just at the beginning he was quite affecting and could not get on without a go of brandy which we thought very rum. He as given up his trade witch was his sole dependanse sinse he lost all his plaices and know dout he will be trew to us til somthink else befalse. Dere frind thease is the first Hoctober as we as passed without a brewin witch it looks rayther brown but hope to bear it—and we are getting quite hammerous of our tease witch at first was very tormenting but now the slow leaves goes off as fast as gunpowder and them, has as gardings makes the how-queer mixter, but I am afeard I'm a bit of a bore as the learned pig sed and so conclood Dere frind affeckshionately OCTOBER.—Battle of A gin·court. (Petty France) JOE COSE IN LONDON TO PHŒBE BUTTERCUP IN
THE COUNTRY. "O deer Feby sich a plase lunnun is yew Havent got a singl hidear i only wish yew was Hear yew wood sune hav al the tethe Stole out off yewr hed ass for sites Bles yewr week ize i hav sea evry think & havent had no time for Nothink only luvving yew & Sory yew rote them 4 ubbrading ninepeny leters wich rely doant Bleav as yewr Makeing me a pressant of the Kichin sithers at parting has Bean abl to Cut our luv in 2 O deerist Feby the sithers must be verry Sharp grun indede ass cood Severe sich luv ass ourn i hav bean to the Tip top of St palls & Drunk my share off 2 botls off wisky inside the bal wich is quite a rume But must confes i nevver was in sich a Bal rume in al my life the vew is rely Wunderfull nevver sea so much smoak togethar in al my Days allso hav bean to sea the lions in the towr wich their is no sich thing to be Seen & the same of the brittish mewseam wear i was Told i shood sea al sorts of Live creturs but turnt out nothink but Stuff allso hav Bean to doory lane & Comon Gardn & my i Feby sich hacting & singing Fillips partickler tawk of Garick i am sur he is ass Depe as Garick & mister Brayam sings Deper & deper stil allso hav Bean lukky anuff to sa the yung quean wich deer Feby she is no moor Like a quean then yew ar namely insted of a crown on her hed ass she orts to hav her Rial hiniss had nothink but a comon Bonit & insted of a septer in her and nothink but a Grene silk parrysawl only Think Feby of ruleing a nashun like Grate briton with a grene silk parrysawl allso hav ad a intervew with the duk of Welinton wich insted off Bean the Grate ero they giv him out to be is quite a Litel chap & deerest Feby cood Lik him my self & stand of 1 leg then theirs the parks ide Park St jamess & Regency park lately Threw open to the publik wich is a grate advarntige in regard of meting nuss mades wich ide Park & kensinton gardns was rely geting so Low did i tel yew befour of the stem pakits on the rivver they ar al as one as stage coches namely going upon weels & Carying inside & out pasingers only insted of osses is Drawd alung by nothink but Chimblys to be Short with yew i hav sea allmost evrythink But not yet ad the plessure off Bean pressant at a Dredfull fire tho they was 6 ouzes Burnt only a strete of last tewsdy nite & a hold gentel man Jumt out off a 2 pare off stares windy on to a Pattant air fetherbed only unfortynat the made forgot to Blo it up in the mornin and consiquensialy the hold gemman insted off Braking his fal only Broke 2 off his ribs i was lukky anuff to sea a yung wumman Drownded in the sirpintine wich she wood hav Savd her life if it hadent Bean for 1 off the umain sasietys men Geting intangld in her petty cotes & keping her hed too lung under Warter allso sea a hold wumman nokt Down by a noo polease & 3 men kild by Safety cabs to say nothink off hacksidents by homini-bus wich is no wunder seaing the number they Cary wich yew no Siting down 13 is unlukkines itself allso Bean pressant at a Dredfull drunken row in a coart in pety france wich master and me Geting into the Coart end we was quite jamd in & in Devvaring to cut our Lukky receevd sevral Unlukky blos but at last the noo polease Arivd & evry Sole tuk to his Eels & as master laffably sed insted off the Batl of a Gin court turnt out the Batl of Runnymede but deerest Feby doant Bleav in the midl off al this plessuring nayther master nor me is appy in lunnun i asure yew we ar quite Contrayry & artily Repent as evver we Consentid to becum parliment men for West stafordsheer wich befour we was hindipendant members we cood Do ass we likt But now just Revers & ar quite tide by our 4 legs master as Bean admitd at crokfuds a notoryus hel but poor feller he finds hisself quite out off his Hellyment & indede boath him & me is quite at a Los without our old friends the Cows & shepe & yew & missis & al the rest off the beests ass we hav Bean ust to al our lives & master is grew quite thin in consequents & Bleav me Feby tho i doant Take in my waste cotes so menny oles i mis yew quite ass much ass master missis missis we spend al our Spar time in Smith feeld wich is the only rele plessure we hav Smith feeld is just the same ass 1 of our own feelds in West stafordsheer only no gras nor no eges nor no riks of hay nor no Stiles to sit a coartin on But ful of orses & cows & carves & pigs & shepe & other Beestly sites O them deer pigs ow Glad i was to ear there wel none vices it quite put me in mind of yew & deer Butermilk villige & i rely cood have Stade a earin them squele al day Lung wich deerest Feby doant Bleav wat i say about the pigs is al Gammon we hav got a Bewtifull ous in pel mel & the yung ladys ar verry Gay mis Jewlia is verry fond off Sowlogical gardning & gos evry day to Studdy the hannimils at the regency Park allso mis Jawgeny rides out evry mornin on her pony with James the noo sirvent beind on 1 off the hold coch orses wich as Bean clipt & his tale Cut thurrow bred for the okasion the sirvents is al very wel & my duty to yewr farther & ow is yewr sister Suzn & poor litl nock need Nely & abuv al deerest luv Ows yewr muther Respecktiv cumps to al yewr old felow sirvents & Pleas exept yewrself deerest Feby from yewr adorabl JOE COSE. P. S. O Feby Feby wear al in a huprore sins Riting my abuv we hav found out mis Jewlia only went Sowlogical gardning for a xcuse to mete her luvver & is boath loped away gudnes or rather Badnes nose wear Allso the same of mis Jawgeny & James the noo sirvent ass i told yew off but Bles yewr art was no sich thing but only a luvver in disgize & wen we al thort him a Real lakky turnt out nothink but a Vally de Sham. THE PRAISE OF PUNCH. I love thee, Punch! with all thy faults and failings, Spite of the strait-laced folks and all their railings; I love thee in thy state etherial, Thou grateful compound of strange contradictions! Filling the brain with Fancy's vivid fictions: Thou castle-building wight! Urging Imagination's airy flight; Chasing blue devils from their dismal revels; Spurning this sombre world of selfish sadness, And changing sounds of woe to notes of gladness: Call'd by whatever name, Rum, Rack, or Toddy,—thou soul without a body! Thy welcome is the same. I like-wise love thee in thy state material, Thou merry fellow, Punchinello! Thou chip of an old block! Thou wooden god of fun!—practical pun! Thou hearty cock! Thou dissipator of Policeman's vapours, In whose grim face, Ting'd with the blueishness of nothing-to-doishness, We oft may trace A grin as he beholds thee cut thy capers. "Pet of the Petticoats!" lov'd of Servant Maid, So neat and staid; Who, from the area steps, with furtive eyes, Surveys thy antics in a mute surprise; Belov'd of Errand Boy! who little cares For weighty matters he unconscious bears, If Punch in all his glory stops his way, Tempting the varlet with a priceless play. Delight of young and old, of great and small! Tho' of each grosser passion thou'rt the slave, Albeit thou'rt rake and rogue, and thief and knave, Of ev'ry grace and goodness quite bereft, With not a virtue to redeem thee left; Spite of thy faults, oh, Punch! we love thee all! And hence thy Wooden Worship dost impart A moral sound to every conscious heart: Thou show'st us, Punch, that we're not over-nice When wit and humour are allied to vice. But as thy close acquaintance brings hard knocks On wooden blocks,— So, if we'd 'scape a world of awkward trouble, Whene'er in real life we meet thy double (And rogues of thews and sinews, flesh and blood, Are not so harmless quite as those of wood), Let us observe this rule,—this prudent plan— Enjoy the humour, but avoid the man. AN ADVENTURE OF A GUY. In days gone by, ere "George the Third was king," Or men had heard the names of Burke or Swing, Lived an old hunks in London's famous city, Who had a niece, fair, buxom, wise, and witty. And this fair maiden, being past fifteen, Had got a lover—young Alonzo Green— A youth of goodly parts and handsome mien. But, as Alonzo was extremely poor, Old hunks had in his face banged-to the door; And ever after, that his niece might be More safe, he kept her under lock and key. But still they corresponded—thro' the means Of an old woman who sold herbs and greens: And thus the lovers planned to run away, And get them married one Gunpowder Day. Alonzo was to come disguised as Guy; And while the mummers played their mummery, A real Guy was to be deftly placed Within the chair, while he ran off in haste To hide him till old hunks was fast asleep; When thro' the garden window they could creep, And, down a silken ladder gently gliding, Soon find some happy bower for love to hide in. So said, so done (in those days men would vie Who best should entertain the loyal Guy: All else got mobbed as friends of popery): The mummers were admitted, Guys exchanged, And everything was done as pre-arranged. Now all is still: old hunks locks up the house: Alonzo lies as quiet as a mouse: When lo! he hears a step upon the floor— And then, old hunks arrives—and locks the door. The Gunpowder Plot or Guys in Council. The fact was this: a rival of our swain, Who'd tried to win the niece's heart in vain, Had bribed a mummer to reveal the plot, Which thus to the old hunks's ears had got. Now to the maiden's room the grey-beard flies, And, deaf to all her prayers, and tears, and sighs, Bids her prepare for instantaneous flight: A coach will come for her that very night. Even as he speaks, she hears the horrid wheels: And down the stairs her hated guardian steals. Just then the rival swain resolved to try If he, in semblance of another Guy, Cannot induce the maid with him to fly; Hastes to her room, softly the window opes, And then lets fall his ladder of silk ropes. The maid deceived, his rashness gently chides, Then down the silken ladder nimbly glides. Meanwhile, Alonzo, finding himself trapped, Without a notion how the thing had happ'd, Opens his window, down his ladder slips, And straightway to his lady's casement trips. What is his wonder when his rival's ropes He sees! What are his joys, his fears, his hopes, When at the window he discerns his bride, And sees her down the ladder safely glide! All this, of course, is on the garden side. In front, old hunks has settled all his schemes: Of hate, and vengeance now he only dreams. Bursting with rage and spite, he mounts the stair, And rushes to the chamber of the fair— But only finds Alonzo's rival there, Who, anxiously is thro' the casement bending, Preparatory to his safe descending. "What do I see?" is now old hunks's cry, "Gadso! what! that's you, is it, Master Guy? There, brave Alonzo—there, my pretty fop!" And thro' the window throws him neck and crop. Meantime, the lovers have a shelter found, Where soon in Hymen's fetters they are bound. And long they lived, as kind and fond a pair As—wife and husband generally are. HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. The approaching vacation devolves on me the pleasing duty of reporting to you, by the hands of Master Timothy, the general progress of his studies. In some respects his extraordinary precocity has even exceeded my wishes. I have directed his reading principally to Biography, and his ardour has led him to add to my selection the lives of Turpin and Moore Carew, together with the instructive narratives of the Newgate Calendar. His progress in penmanship has been so great, that he has not only written all his own letters, but many for his school-fellows, to which the versatility of his genius has led him to append their names so accurately, as to enable him to obtain from their parents, with the help of the post-boy, a considerable addition to his pocket-money. I have cleared up a few of these little shades of character, which have been brought to light, as you will perceive at the foot of my bill. In Arithmetic, Subtraction has been his favourite rule, as all the drawers in the house can testify. He has also worked some complicated sums in Vulgar Fractions, and proved them, by the glazier's bill enclosed. His skill in Division has also been displayed in his setting all the school together by the ears. In Composition, his forte is romance and general fiction; indeed his conversation is of so flowery a nature, as to have been compared to a wreath of li-lies. At our races he greatly improved his acquaintance with the Greeks—Late-in, of course, included—and my servants picked him up at midnight, land-measuring, at length, on the Turnpike road. He has progressed in Logic, though rather addicted to strange premises, which may lead to serious conclusions. He has become an accomplished natural philosopher—his pursuit of Ornithology has led him to every hen-roost in the village, and all my eggs have been constantly exhausted in his experiments on suction. During his inquiries into the nature of animal heat, my favourite cat caught a severe cold, from which she never recovered, through his turning her out without her skin, on a frosty night. I have inserted a small item from my surgeon's bill, for repairs of his companions' noses, damaged by his passion for Conchology; and a charge, which I fear you will think heavy, for a skylight, destroyed by Master Timothy's falling through, while crawling along the parapet on a dark night, to seek some information at my gardener's daughter's window—an extraordinary instance of the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties. His decided turn for the belles lettres has deprived me of two of my best maids; for I have been obliged to discharge them on suspicion of irregularly participating in his studies, contrary to the rules of my establishment. As I do not feel competent, however, to do justice to the education of so talented a youth, I shall not expect to see Master Timothy again after the holidays. I am, my dear Sir, Your faithful Servant, Barnabus Bombrush. 25 Apotheosis of Vauxhall Simpson, 1835. The glories of his leg and cane are past: He made his bow and cut his stick at last. THE QUEEN IN THE CITY. How provoking! such a choking, thick, and yellow fog No Turk or Jew would venture to turn out a Christian dog. 'Tis cruel hard, upon my word, with such a gloomy sky, To quit my down for Queen or crown, it looks so winter-lye. I'd rather keep me warm within, than go in all this rout, For it's not my creed, except in need, to take to "cold without." And I cannot see why this should be, nor the reason of it all, It's quite a job to dine with Bob and Nabob in Guildhall. —"Why, don't you see, her Majesty as yet is but a green one, She's heard of city riots, but by chance has never seen one; Tho' a king of the land once fear'd the Strand, and said it was full of sinners, And through Cheapside was afraid to ride, so they went without their dinners. But see the light is getting bright, and the streets are filled with people, And pennons gleam, in the morning beam, from turret and from steeple. The sound that swells from St. Martin's bells would please O'Connell's ear, While the Union flag does gaily wag, they're all re-pealers there. But now the crush becomes a rush, and the Black and Red Guards fright beholders, Here comes the Lancers, they're the prancers, and the Blues with their broad swords over their shoulders. And Temple Bar is the seat of war, and rags the ground bestrew, Here's a Sunday hat, and a boy squeezed flat, a purse and a satin shoe. Mister soldier! of course you'll make your horse take his foot from off my toe. I'm on duty, sir, and I dare not stir till I hear the trumpet blow.— But we've paid our guineas, and we're not such ninnies as to stand in all this riot,— Here's a lady dead, for she hangs her head, and seems so very quiet. Oh! what a jam, we can scarcely cram our heads within the door; I fear you'll find, you must sit behind, since you did not come before. Oh! that won't do—we've paid for two—myself, and here's my cousin; I'm number twenty—here's room in plenty—why, your window wont hold a dozen. 'Tis a swindling cheat, but we lose the treat while haggling here we stand, And we'll not submit to be thus bit, if a lawyer's in the land. But now stand fast, they come at last, the grooms in their cloth of gold, And Royal Dukes, you may know by their looks, so thick they can scarce be told. Here are Silver Sticks, in a coach-and-six, methinks it's rather funny, But those sticks are dear, and it's very clear they cost a deal of money. A coach to carry a stick, indeed, how comical you talk— Oh! there's many a stick, with head so thick, that rides when he ought to walk. But who is that, in the feathers and hat, so gracious she nods her head, Oh, that's the Queen's Bed-chamber maid. Is her Majesty going to bed? Now the best of the fun is just begun, for, prancing, may be seen The handsome Common Council men, in their gowns of mazarine, And the Sheriffs bold, in their chains of gold, and not disposed to quarrel, Though one the song of Moses sings, and the other a Christmas Carroll. And each Alderman fat, in his three cock'd hat—so comely, one by one They stately ride, with their grooms beside—no doubt, to hold them on. 'Tis the Mayor, of course, outside a horse, with the sword of state before him, He looks, in his pride, from side to side. How the 'prentice boys adore him! Hurrah! Hurrah! she comes this way—stand firm to see her pass! Well, what have you seen?—why, not the Queen, but the glare of the window glass. Oh, I'm going wild! have you seen my child? from above I let him fall.— Yes, there he rolls on the people's polls, and he'll soon be at Guildhall. That little crowd, they scream so loud, it pierces thro' and thro' you; It's all the charity girls and boys a-singing "Hallelujah," And "Live the Queen"—'tis a lovely scene—did you hear that cracking note?— 'Tis a little lass, in the second class, she's burst her little throat. And now the bells ring round again, and the cannon loudly thunder, But, before we go, do any know which was the Queen, I wonder? I saw the Queen, she was dressed in green, and a gold tiara crown'd her. No, I rather think, that was her in pink, with the silver all around her.— In pink or green she never was seen, but she wore a robe of red, And she rode a horse, as a thing of course, with a fur cap on her head.— I think it's plain we shall know her again, so now we'll quit our station, And we'll take a turn, when the gas-lights burn, to see the illumination. See crowns and stars, and bright V.R.'s, and wreaths and garlands pretty, And laurels green all round the Queen, and mottoes quaint and witty. Here's "Wax and Wick-toria" (Cowan, in gloria), "May she long wear her Crown (Alderman Brown), "Ourselves and the Queen" (Pellatt and Green), "She'll ne'er have her match if she reads the Dispatch" (says that jolly farmer, Alderman Harmer), "Success to Regina and Essence of Bina" (inscription good, by Matthew Wood), "Long live the Queen, to drink Black and Green" (Mr. Twining, in bright lamps shining), "None shall dare to affront her" (Sir Claudius Hunter), "In a lot we'll knock down all the foes of the crown" (a desperate go, by Farebrother and Co.). But none of the sight gave such delight as the Aldermen and the Queen, And throughout the land, such spectacles grand will never again be seen.
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