 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
101
PAN IN TOWN
Falstaff.
If any man will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him lend me the money, and have at him.
If any man will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him lend me the money, and have at him.
Pan.
The Country banks are breaking:
The London banks are shaking:
Suspicion is awaking:
E'en quakers now are quaking:
Experience seems to settle,
That paper is not metal,
And promises of payment
Are neither food nor raiment;
Then, since that, one and all, you
Are fellows of no value
102
Or any kind of merit
That mortals call substantial,
Excepting the financial,
(Which means the art of robbing
By huckstering and jobbing,
And sharing gulls and gudgeons
Among muckworms and curmudgeons)
Being each a flimsy funny
On the stream of paper money,
All riding by sheet anchors,
Of balances at Bankers;
Look out! for squalls are coming,
That if you stand hum-drumming,
Will burst with vengeance speedy,
And leave you like the needy
Who have felt your clutches greedy,
All beggarly and seedy
And not worth a maravedi.
Chorus.
Our balances, our balances,
Our balances, our balances:
Our balances we crave for:
Our balances we rave for:
Our balances we rush for:
Our balances we crush for:
Our balances we call for:
Our balances we bawl for:
Our balances we run for:
Our balances we dun for:
103
Our balances we roar for:
Our balances we shout for:
Our balances we rout for:
Our balances, our balances,
We bellow all about for.
Obadiah Nine-eyes.
The mighty men of Gad, yea,
Are all upon the pad, yea,
Bellowing with lungs all brazen,
Even like the bulls of Basan;
With carnal noise and shout, yea,
They compass me about, yea;
I am full of tribulation
For the sinful generation;
I shrink from the abiding
Of the wrath of their back-sliding;
Lest my feet should be up-tripp-ed,
And my outward man be stripp-ed,
And my pockets be out-clean-ed
Of the fruits which I have glean-ed.
Chorus.
Our balances, our balances,
Our balances, our balances,
Pay—pay—pay—pay—
Without delay—
Our balances, our balances.
104
A weel sirs, what's the matter?
An' hegh sirs, what's the clatter?
Ye dinna ken,
Ye seely men,
Y'ur fortunes ne'er were batter.
There's too much population,
An' too much cultivation,
An' too much circulation,
That's a' that ails the nation.
Ye're only out o' halth, sirs,
Wi' a plathora o' walth, sirs,
Instead of glourin' hither,
Ye'd batter, I conjacture,
Just hoot awa' thegither,
To hear our braw chiel lacture:
His ecoonoomic science
Wad silence a' your clanking,
An' teach you some reliance,
On the preenciples o' banking.
Chorus.
Our balances, our balances,
Our balances, our balances.
Sir Roger Rednose (Banker).
Be quiet, lads, and steady,
Suspend this idle racket,
Your balances are ready,
Each wrapped in separate packet,
105
And ready to be pocketed.
First Citizen.
As of cash you've such a heap, sir,
My balance you may keep, sir;
Have troubled you I shouldn't,
Except in the belief
That you couldn't pay or wouldn't.
[Exit.
Sir Roger Rednose.
Now there's a pretty thief.
(A scroll appears over a door.)
“Tick, Nick, Tick, Trick, and Company,
Are deeply grieved to say,
They are under the necessity
Of suspending for the day.”
Second Citizen.
This evil I portended.
Third Citizen.
Now all my hopes are ended.
Fourth Citizen.
I'm quite aground.
Fifth Citizen.
I'm all astound.
Sixth Citizen.
Would they were all suspended.
106
Our balances, our balances,
Our balances, our balances,
Pay, pay, pay, pay,
Without delay,
Lest ere to-morrow morning
To pot you go;
Tick, Nick, and Co.
Have given us all a warning.
Sir Flimsy Kite.
Sirs, we must stop;
We shut up shop,
Though assets here are plenty.
When up we're wound,
For every pound
We'll pay you shillings twenty.
Seventh Citizen.
What assets, sir, I pray you?
Sir Flimsy Kite.
Sir, quite enough to pay you.
Eighth Citizen.
May it please you to say what, sir?
Sir Flimsy Kite.
Good bills a monstrous lot, sir;
And Spanish Bonds a store, sir;
And Mining Shares still more, sir;
107
And Poyais half a million:
And what will make you sleek, sir,
Fine picking from the Greek, sir.
Ninth Citizen.
I think it will appear, sir,
The greatest Greek is here, sir.
Sentimental Cockney.
Oh how can Plutus deal so
By his devout adorer?
Nervous Cockney.
This hubbub makes me feel so.
Fancy Cockney.
Now this I call a floorer.
Newspaper Man.
The respectable old firm,
(We have much concern in saying,)
Kite, Grubbings, and Muckworm,
Have been forced to leave off paying.
Bystander.
The loser and the winner,
The dupe and the impostor,
May now both go to dinner
With Humphrey, Duke of Glo'ster.
108
That we the fruits may pocket,
Let's go and strike a docket.
Chorus.
Da Capo.
Our balances, our balances,
Our balances, our balances.
Sir Roger Rednose.
Some are gone to-day,
More will go to-morrow:
But I will stay and pay,
And neither beg nor borrow,
Tick and Kite,
That looked so bright,
Like champagne froth have flown, sirs;
But I can tell
They both worked well
While well was let alone, sirs.
Pan, it may be necessary to tell the citizens, is the author of “Panic Terrors.” The Cockney poet, who entitled a poem The Universal Pan, which began with “Not in the town am I”; a most original demonstration of his universality; has had a good opportunity, since he wrote that poem, of seeing that Pan can be in town sometimes. Perhaps, according to his Mythology, the Pan in town was the Sylvan Pan; a fashionable arrival for the season.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |