 
'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks, Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean art, Start into light and make the lighter start; To see red Phoebus through the gallery pane Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane, While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit, And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit. At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, Distant or near, they settle where they please; But when the multitude contracts the span, And seats are rare, they settle where they can. Now the full benches, to late comers, doom No room for standing, miscall'd standing-room. Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks, And bawling "Pit full," gives the check he takes; Yet onward still, the gathering numbers cram, Contending crowders shout the frequent damn, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, jam. See to their desks Apollo's sons repair; Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair; In unison their various tones to tune Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon; In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute, Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French-horn, and twangs the tingling harp; Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in, Attunes to order the chaotic din. Now all seems hush'd—but no, one fiddle will Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still; Foil'd in his crash, the leader of the clan Reproves with frowns the dilatory man; Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow, Nods a new signal, and away they go. Perchance, while pit and gallery cry, "Hats off," And awed Consumption checks his chided cough, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love Drops, reft of pin, her playbill from above; Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap; But, wiser far than he, combustion fears, And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers; Till sinking gradual, with repeated twirl, It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl; Who from his powder'd pate the intruder strikes, And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes. Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues? Who's that calls "Silence" with such leathern lungs? He who, in quest of quiet, "silence" hoots, Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes. What various swains our motley walls contain! Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane; Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court; From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain, Culls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane; The lottery cormorant, the auction shark, The full-price master, and the half-price clerk; Boys who long linger at the gallery door, With pence twice five, they want but twopence more, Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, And sends them jumping up the gallery stairs. Critics we boast who ne'er their malice baulk, But talk their minds, we wish they'd mind their talk; Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live, Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary, That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait, Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. Yet here, as elsewhere, chance can joy bestow, Where scowling fortune seem'd to threaten woe. John Richard William Alexander Dwyer Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Emanuel Jennings polish'd Stubbs's shoes. Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Up as a corn-cutter, a safe employ; In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred (At number twenty-seven, it is said), Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head: He would have bound him to some shop in town, But with a premium he could not come down; Pat was the urchin's name, a red-hair'd youth, Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth. Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe, The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat; Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurn'd the one to settle in the two. How shall he act? Pay at the gallery door Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four? Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, And gain his hat again at half-past eight? Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief." "Thank you," cries Pat, "but one won't make a line;" "Take mine," cried Wilson, and cried Stokes, "take mine." A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, Where Spitalfields with real India vies. Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue, Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. George Green below, with palpitating hand, Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band. Up soars the prize; the youth, with joy unfeign'd, Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd, While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat. |
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