  Oh! the balloon, the great balloon, It left Vauxhall one Monday at noon, And every one said we should hear of it soon With news from Aleppo or Scanderoon. But very soon after folks changed their tune: "The netting had burst—the silk—the shalloon;— It had met with a trade-wind—an awful monsoon— It was blown out to sea—it was blown to the moon— They ought to have put off their journey till June; Sure none but a donkey, a goose, or baboon Would go up in November in any balloon!" Then they talk'd about Green—"Oh! where's Mister Green? And where's Mister Hollond who hired the machine? And where is Monk Mason, the man that has been Up so often before—twelve times or thirteen— And who writes such nice letters describing the scene? And where's the cold fowl, and the ham, and poteen? The press'd beef, with the fat cut off—nothing but lean, And the portable soup in the patent tureen? Have they got to Grand Cairo, or reach'd Aberdeen? Or Jerusalem—Hamburgh—or Ballyporeen? Stay! here's Mister Gye—Mr. Frederick Gye— "At Paris," says he, "I've been up very high, A couple of hundred of toises, or nigh, A cockstride the Tuilleries' pantiles, to spy, With Dollond's best telescope stuck at my eye, And my umbrella under my arm like Paul Pry, But I could see nothing at all but the sky; So I thought with myself 'twas of no use to try Any longer: and, feeling remarkably dry From sitting all day stuck up there, like a Guy, But here's Mr. Hughes!—What says young Mr. Hughes?— "Why, I'm sorry to say we've not got any news Since the letter they threw down in one of their shoes, Which gave the mayor's nose such a deuce of a bruise, As he popp'd up his eye-glass to look at their cruise Over Dover; and which the folks flock'd to peruse At Squier's bazaar, the same evening, in crews— Politicians, news-mongers, town-council, and blues, Turks, Heretics, Infidels, Jumpers, and Jews, Scorning Bachelor's papers, and Warren's reviews; But the wind was then blowing towards Helvoetsluys, And my father and I are in terrible stews, For so large a balloon is a sad thing to lose!"— Here's news come at last!—Here's news come at last! A vessel's come in, which has sail'd very fast; And a gentleman serving before the mast,— Mister Nokes—has declared that "the party has past Safe across to the Hague, where their grapnel they cast, As a fat burgomaster was staring aghast To see such a monster come borne on the blast, And it caught in his waistband, and there it stuck fast!"— Oh! fie! Mister Nokes,—for shame, Mr. Nokes! To be poking your fun at us plain-dealing folks— Sir, this isn't a time to be cracking your jokes, And such jesting your malice but scurvily cloaks; Such a trumpery tale every one of us smokes, And we know very well your whole story's a hoax!— "Oh! what shall we do?—Oh! where will it end?— Can nobody go?—Can nobody send To Calais—or Bergen-op-zoom—or Ostend? Can't you go there yourself?—Can't you write to a friend, For news upon which we may safely depend?"— Dear me! what a treat for a juvenile fÊte! What thousands will flock their arrival to greet! There'll be hardly a soul to be seen in the street, For at Vauxhall the whole population will meet, And you'll scarcely get standing-room, much less a seat, For this all preceding attraction must beat: Since, they'll unfold, what we want to be told, How they cough'd,—how they sneez'd,—how they shiver'd with cold,— How they tippled the "cordial" as racy and old As Hodges, or Deady, or Smith ever sold, And how they all then felt remarkably bold: How they thought the boil'd beef worth its own weight in gold; And how Mr. Green was beginning to scold Because Mr. Mason would try to lay hold Of the moon, and had very near overboard roll'd! And there they'll be seen—they'll be all to be seen! The great-coats, the coffee-pot, mugs, and tureen! With the tight rope, and fire-works, and dancing between, If the weather should only prove fair and serene, And there, on a beautiful transparent screen, In the middle you'll see a large picture of Green, Mr. Hollond on one side, who hired the machine, Mr. Mason on t'other, describing the scene; And Fame, on one leg, in the air, like a queen, With three wreaths and a trumpet, will over them lean; While Envy, in serpents and black bombazin, Looks on from below with an air of chagrin! |
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