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Songs, comic and satyrical

By George Alexander Stevens. A new edition, Corrected
 

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THE DREAM.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


21

THE DREAM.

[_]

Tune,—Push about the brisk Bowl.

By a whirlwind methought I through Æther was hurl'd,
Electric 'mong Spirits of Air;
Upborn by the clouds, we look'd down on the world,
And odd exhibitions spy'd there.
England's Genius was there, bearing Monarchy's crown,
In procession round Liberty Hall;
Faction seiz'd her rich robe, Public Spirit pull'd down,
And Folly broad grinn'd at her fall.
In weather-house plac'd, to denote foul and fair,
Two Figures are veering about;
So pageants we saw, and we smil'd at their glare,
As they turn'd, with the Times, in and out.
The Methodists, mask'd with Hypocrisy's face,
Anathemas thunder'd aloud;
So Jack Puddings joke, with distorted grimace,
Benetting their Gudgeons,—the Croud.
Wit and Humour were there, drove from Dignity's door,
That Stupidity's coach might have room;
Debauch we saw open Temptation's base store,
And Disease taint Simplicity's bloom.
Stubborn Will against Prudence was waging a fight,
While Desire oppos'd Duty strong;
The Passions confess'd Reason's Dictates were right,
Though themselves still resolv'd to be wrong.
A wonderful Troop towards Westminster bore:
What wonders there are 'mong mankind;
In gilt chariots Lawyers paraded before,
On foot Justice follow'd behind.
Church Preferments we saw—but respect shall withstand
The abuse that's pour'd forth on the Cloth;
Stock Jobbers and Statesmen we saw hand in hand,
And Pride stood at par between both.

22

Cent per Cent had lain siege to Integrity's head,
And Beauty was battering his heart;
East India Success struck Humility dead,
And Title took Vanity's part.
Crafty Care and pale Usury, two sleepless hags,
Wealth o'erwhelm'd, yet untired with toil;
Their heir, Dissipation, we saw at their bags,
With Flattery sharing the spoil.
The myst'ries of Trade,—but no longer I'll dwell,
On either the mighty or mean;
From an Emperor's court to a Penitent's cell,
Life's all the same loughable scene,
'Tis a pitiful piece, like a Farce in a Fair,
Where shew, noise, and nonsense misrule,
Where tinsel paradings, make Ignorance stare,
Where he who acts best is the Fool.