An Original Collection of Songs sung at the Theatres Royal, Public Concerts &c. &c. By W. T. Moncrieff |
An Original Collection of Songs | ||
SONG AND NO SONG.
Sung by Mr. Mathews, at the Theatre Royal, English Opera House, in the “Bashful Man.” Air—“Go to the Devil and shake yourself.”
‘There was once’—I beg pardon, I've pitch'd it too low,
‘There was once’—in a different key I'll now try,
‘There was once on a time’—it began so I know.
Tis vexing, 'tis odd—I sha'n't hit it, I doubt—
‘There was once on a time’—dear, I'm singing too fast—
‘There was once on a time’—in the time I'm quite out—
I'm afraid that I shall not get through it at last.
I've no voice, a'n't in cue—you'll laugh at me, 'tis plain;
You must really excuse me—I'm willing you know—
‘There was once on a time’—I'll begin it again.
‘There was once on a time’—I've a very bad cold,
‘That a man’—no, ‘a woman’—no, no, 'twas ‘a man’—
‘Was called on to sing, so the story is told’—
I cannot get through it, do all that I can.
‘Or to drink salt and water, an odd sort of choice;
‘And being called on’—I shall not keep you long,
But I've been eating nuts, which are bad for the voice.
‘Being called on to sing,’ and, like me, half afraid,
Though, like me, by his side, he a beautiful girl had,
He said, ‘let me see’—oh, he got up and said,
‘Damme I must go, there's a hole in the ballad.’
ANALIZATION.
By analization
I've tried all the nation,
Defined each gradation,
And prov'd every station,
With Sir Humphry's best
New chemical test,
And found what mortals are made of.
A bib and a tucker,
And cheeks in a pucker,
Caps, corals, and beads,
And samplers and dolls,
Cakes, and caudle, sugar and spice,
Mamma's darling and all that is nice,
And such are our little girls made of!
Of long tasks saying,
And truant playing,
Pulling and hauling,
And teazing and bawling,
Bats and balls, and whips and tops,
Dogs-ear'd books and dirty chops,
And such are are little boys made of!
Of concerts and dances,
And sanctified glances.
Bows and bonnets,
And very fine sonnets,
Boarding-school graces, and ribbons and laces,
And sweet pretty faces, when kept in their places,
And such are our young maids made of!
Of larks and sprees,
And do as they please,
And “dammes,” and “zounds!”
Life in London, and Tom and Jerry,
Past twelve at night, and port and sherry,
And such are our young men made of!
Of fond valentines,
And amorous lines,
Ducks and dears,
And crocodile tears,
Licence and ring, love, honour, obey,
Bride-cake and favours, and the devil to pay,
And such are our young lovers made of.
Of honey-moon,
And storm very soon,
Dears and loves,
And turtle doves,
Kisses and blisses, and all that's good,
That is, if they're rightly understood,
And such are our young wives made of!
Of sulks and huffs,
And kicks and cuffs,
Conjugal rights,
And raking at nights,
Drinking and swearing, and this and that,
Doctors' Commons and no one knows what
And such are our husbands made of!
Of thrown away sighs,
And crow's-feet eyes,
Sprigs of rue,
And vinegar, too,
Parchment skin and hoarded riches,
Apes to lead, and bachelor's breeches,
And such are our old maids made of!
Of bread and cheese,
And very weak knees,
And rheumatic toes,
Funded riches and landed estate,
Worn out smalls and a very bald pate,
And such are old bachelors made of!
Of title deeds,
And very deep weeds,
A terrible sigh,
When there's any one nigh,
Jointures, scan. mag, toast and tea,
Prudery, flirting, and fiddle-de-dee,
And such are our widows made of!
Of souls to feel,
For the public weal,
A hand to give,
And a heart to save;
Making us Britons all loyally sing
With heart and soul “Long live the King,”
And such are our rulers made of!
Debates and speeches,
To spend our riches,
Wisdom great,
To take care of the State,
Nice cheese-parings, ways and means,
Loaves and fishes and candle-ends,
And such are our statesmen made of!
Of Westminster Hall,
And ermine withal,
Learned brother,
And lots of pother,
Counsel and jury and very wise looks,
Flaw in the indictment and statute books,
And such are our judges made of!
Of power and skill,
Opponents to kill;
When the enemy's near,
And generous pity, that ever is shown,
To a fallen foe, when the battle is won,
And such are our officers made of!
Of a careful pate,
And charity great,
Plenty of gold,
And worth untold,
Counting-house and London's pride,
And I think I may add the world's beside,
And such are our merchant's made of!
Of a bought rotten Boro'
And loyalty thoro,'
Of “aye” and “no,”
And a time-serving bow,
Economy bills, thro' the house to be pass'd,
But always an eye to a good place, at last,
And such are our M. P.'s made of!
Of Latin and Greek.
And prayers, once a week;
Good living and port,
And a text of a sort;
Parsonage house and a great bush wig,
And a nice little smug curling tail'd tithe pig,
And such are our parsons made of.
Of Warwick Lane,
A fee and a cane,
Rhubarb and manna,
And ipecacuanha,
Lotions, potions—powders and pills,
Visiting gig and long physicing bills,
And such are our doctors made of.
Of causes and fees,
Demurrers and pleas,
Where bills they retrench,
A dreadful long brief and a terrible case,
Tax'd costs and a very wry face.
And such are our lawyers made of!
Of paste and shears,
And folks by the ears,
A grey goose quill,
And fiction at will,
Stolen materials—foolscap and ink,
Lots of pretence and very little chink,
And such are our authors made of?
Of citizens' gains,
And gowns and gold chains,
Turtle and claret,
As long as they'll bear it;
Companies dinners and Guildhall chair,
Common Hall and hopes to be Mayor,
And such are aldermen made of!
Of bulls and bears
And companies shares,
Cash in the funds,
And Columbian bonds,
Cent. per cent. and a slice of the loan,
Lame duck and a 'Change Alley groan,
And such are stock brokers made of.
Of masquerade speeches,
And other men's breeches,
Ranting and raillery,
Box, pit, and gallery,
Hosts of friends on a benefit night,
And lots of applause whene'er they act right,
And such are our players made of!
Of crotchets and quavers,
And great people's favours,
And horse hair to please,
Gamut and rosin—and airs and graces
Flats and sharps, and lots of grimaces,
And such are musicians made of!
Of whiskers and snuff,
Of padding and puff,
A glass to the eye
When a female is nigh,
Sham collar—false calves and hair,
Stays laced and a head like a bear,
And such are our dandies made of.
Of broad cloth and starch,
And a deal board march,
Thee and thou,
And beaver on brow,
Meeting house and verily friend,
And yeas and nays without any end,
And such are our quakers made of!
Of scarlet and lace,
And a brazen face,
Country quarters,
And maidens in garters,
Ale-house scores and trumpets and drums,
Oaths and scars and bullets and bombs,
And such are our soldiers made of!
Of pitch and tar,
Pig-tail and scar,
Powder and smoke,
And hearts of oak,
Prize money and gold galore,
With a fidler and grog and a girl on shore,
And such are our sailors made of!
Of money lent,
At twenty per Cent.
And a duplicate,
Three nice golden balls hanging out,
A little back door and a very large spout,
And such are our pawnbrokers made of!
Of generous friends,
With helping hands,
Ready to serve,
All those who deserve;
“Hats off”—“down”—“encore” and noise,
Pretty girls and merry boys,
And such are our audiences made of!
GOOD DOCTRINE.
Sung by Mr. Harley, at the Theatrical Fund Dinner, Drury Lane Beef Steak Club, &c. &c. Air—“Derry down.”
Who was famous for giving good ven'son and wine:
All great friends to the cloth, with good living in view,
Quite grace-full they sat down, as parsons should do!
Derry down, down, down, derry down!
Whisper'd—“Cousin, I boldly will lay rump and dozen,
Though here we've a dozen staunch parsons, God wot,
Not one of the twelve has a prayer-book got.”
Derry down, &c.
Such a wager to lay, for the sake of the cloth:
The parsons, no doubt, to confute you, are able,
So we'll bring, with the dinner, the bet on the table.”
Derry down, &c.
Has any one here got a prayer-book, pray?”
Cried “Mine's lost!”—“Mine's at home!”—“Mine's at church, by the Lord!”
Derry down, &c.
But another I purpose to win, ere I've done;
Though the parsons could not bring a prayer-book to view,
I the same bet will lay, they have each a corkscrew.”
Derry down. &c.
That excellent magnum of ancient Madeira.”
'Twas brought—“Let's decant it—a corkscrew, good John’—
Here each of the parsons roar'd out—“I've got one”
Derry down, &c.
MORAL.
When a thing's in its place, it can ne'er come amiss,
Pray'r-books won't serve for corkscrews, and I'm such a sinner,
Though a sermon I like, I don't want it at dinner.
Derry down, &c.
THE LADIES.
Her reign was never yet surpassed by that of any King,
And should our maidens follow her example you'd see then.
That the Ladies would do all things much better than the men.
Tooral looral, &c.
When petticoats have government we all of us must bow,
For, say or do whate'er we will, the Ladies rule us still.
Tooral looral, &c.
For tell me who like woman can command the infantry,
Let her but as white sergeant act, to fight who could defer,
There's not a man of us who wouldn't live and die for her.
Tooral looral, &c.
For who'd not soar to virtue when an angel leads the way!
And that the woolsack she'd adorn I've said and say again,
For after all the Ladies are best judges of us men.
Tooral looral, &c.
For how can woman fail when she has got to use her tongue,
And that they'd best of Doctors prove, is equally as sure,
For where's the ill in life, I ask, a Lady cannot cure.
Tooral looral, &c.
For who so like the Ladies still can put a man in spirits.
That good Upholsterers they'd be, I'll prove, too, in a minute,
For no house can be furnish'd if there's not a Lady in it.
Tooral looral, &c.
So well do they suit all mankind as all men must allow,
As Smiths each Smith the mastery still yield unto his wife,
For, oh, the chains the Ladies forge are chains that last for life.
Tooral looral, &c.
And were they but our Gardeners for tulips none would rove,
Such flowers within themselves they'd be, they still would would charm life's fever,
Be Balsam to our anguish. and Heart's-ease prove for ever.
Tooral looral, &c.
Our marriage licenses they grant, and wedlock's cares console;
Then that they should our Grocers be you surely won't contemn,
For no one can deny that all the sweets are found in them.
Tooral looral &c.
And while we've them to aid us, that Old England ne'er can fall,
And 'tis my firm belief they might soon bring men to that station,
To be merely kept as make-weights in the scale of population.
Tooral looral, &c.
PAUL PRY'S NEW LONDON DIRECTORY OF TRADESMEN, STREETS, EXHIBITIONS, NEWSPAPERS, HOTELS, THEATRES, &c. &c.
Four-and-twenty Tradesmen all of a row.
CHAUNT.
There's Hoby and Roby, and Cater and Prater,Weston and Preston, and Hooper and Cooper,
Hunter and Gunter, and Brecknell and Cracknell;
Hatchett, the coachmaker, who lived in Long Acre;
France and Banting, who'll furnish what's wanting;
Epps, who is chief baron of ham and beef;
Nugee, of St. James's, who suits every body complete,
And Baron Stultz, too, in the opposite street;
Rundell and Bridge, who could (so we're told)
Pave half London (if they liked it) with silver and gold,
Hookham and Sams, who in price never vary,
Because in all their dealings they're stationery;
Light and Flight, and Merry and Perry;
Hancock and Shepherd, in Waterloo Place,
Where no one should go who fears to show his face;
Deals for ready money only, and never gives a morsel of credit;
George Robins, of the Piazza, who's a very fair dealing fellow,
And where, bye-the-bye, I popp'd in the other day, and gave only three-and-sixpence for this beautiful umbrella!
Tresham and Gresham, and Bingham and Tringham,
Besides Flint, the haberdasher, so fam'd for ribbons and laces,
Who has shops in Fleet-street, Bond-street, Regent-street, Oxford-street, Lombard-street, and a thousand other places,
Enough to fill a folio volume from the very top of the page to the bottom, down below,
In this Paul Pry's Directory,
To make the [illeg.]!
Four-and-twenty new streets, all of a row.
CHAUNT.
There's Regent-stret, that was built by Mr. Nash,For those who can pay a good rent and cut a dash
Dorrington-street and Torrington-street,
Arlington-street and Burlington-street;
Belgrove-square, where the houses are very dear,
And where you should have at least a couple of thousands a-year;
The Colonade and the Arcade, neither of which, they say, has ever paid;
Cork-street, and York-street, and Romer-street, and Cromer-street;
Mornington-crescent, that is so very pleasant;
Alpha cottages, for old folks in their dotages;
York avenue, a better you never knew;
Maida-vale, if the air you'd inhale;
Lisson-grove, if you wish to rove;
The North Bank and the South Bank,
For your nabobs and folks of rank;
Connaught-place and Cornwell-terrace;
And then, I'd quite forgot it, there is,
And the new Mary-bone Bazaar, though it's somewhat too far;
Besides Circles, ay, and Circuses, where half the houses are in carcases,
And have brought most of their builders, from the very top of the bricks and mortar, to the workhouses—down below.
In this Paul Pry's Directory, &c.
Four-and-twenty Exhibitions, all of a row,
CHAUNT.
There's the Apollonicon and Panharmonicon:The Cosmorama; the Ancient Armour;
The Cigar Divan, where you may smoke if you can;
The Exhibition at the Royal Academy,
Where many a shilling they've yearly had of me,
Though Suffolk-street would have been more glad of me;
Bullock's Museum; the Colliseum
The Piccadilly's Bronze Achilles
The Diorama, in Regency Park,
Where, as to their lights, we're quite in the dark;
The Exhibition of Water-colours, done by very clever fellows;
Miss Linwood's prime collection, too. of Needle-work,
There's none can say that her's is idle-work;
All offering their attractions to Hoby and Roby, Crater and
Prater, &c. down below.
This is Paul Pry's Directory, &c.
Four-and-twenty prime Hotels, all of a row.
CHAUNT.
There's Long's and Fladong's, Batson's and Matson's, White's and Wright's;Stevens's and Evans's, the Worcester and the Gloucester;
The Petersburg, in Dover-street,
Where you must pay a guinea a mouthful for all you eat;
Depend upon't you'll not grow any thinner;
The Hummums, which, if you would rest your head,
Is just the place to get a bath and bed;
The London, where nothing is left undone;
Peel's, where the lawyers kick their heels;
And the Sablionere, where every thing that's there, is
Served up in the French fashion, quite a-la-mode de Paris,
And where, between you and I, though to tell it I grieve,
(I had it from the landlord) many of the customers have lately taken French leave;
All offering their attractions to Hoby and Roby, &c.
This is Paul Pry's Directory, &c.
Four-and-Twenty Newspapers, all of a row.
CHAUNT.
There's the Old Times, that in its pages diurnal,Boldly calls itself the leading journal;
The opposition paper the Morning Chronicle,
That on the ministers is oft ironical,
But which in turn is weekly brought to book
In the John Bull, either by Hook or by crook
The Morning Post, that makes a boast,
Of showing all the movements of the fashionable host;
The Tap Tub print—the Morning Advertiser—
Published to make the lower orders wiser;
The Herald, that once was by Fitzgerald;
The Sun, which, really it 'ent fun,
Never appears 'till the day is done
The Courier and the Star,
And very good papers they are;
The Globe and Traveller,
That of the affairs of the nation is a great unraveller,
Not forgetting the Sunday Monitor,
For many very clever men upon it are;
With the sporting Life in London,
There can't be a better one done:
Bell's Dispatch, that is really a catch;
The Observer, that's a time-server;
The Examiner, by which Leigh Hunt,
Once gained so much credit and blunt;
And then I mustn't refuse,
To remind you there's the News,
That is written by Mr. Phipps,
Who tips it all pretenders when he gets them on their hips
All offering their attractions to Hoby and Roby, &c.
This is Paul Pry's Directory, &c.
Four-and-twenty Public Places, all of a row.
CHAUNT.
There's the Theatre Royal Drury Lane,Which now is holding up it's head again
With the Theatre Royal Covent Garden,
That, I hope you'll the observation pardon,
Have been lately united by Mr. Bunn,
And licensed to play together—what a bit of fun.
That shrine of song the English Opera,
Which really can't be managed properer;
The Theatre Royal the Haymarket,
Where if I had a fortune I'd embark it,
And where, though I need scarce remark it,
They often show to your mind's and ocular eye,
The image of your humble, here, Paul Pry;
The King's Theatre, where many a titled ninny,
Has been fool enough to throw away his last guinea,
On French dancers and Il Maestro Rossini;
The Adelphi, where they made the folks so merry,
And themselves so rich, by acting Tom and Jerry;
The little Olympic, which would have been undone,
But for bringing out Giovanni in London;
Besides the City, which never pays,
Because folks there like sheep-head's more than plays!
Ducrow's Theatre, that was built by Astley,
And where the performances are relished vastly:
And then, too, there's the Victoria and the Surrey,
Which please the public and each other worry
Frequented by the city beaus and belles;
And stay, now I remember, this 'ent all,
For there's the Royal Gardens fam'd Vauxhall,
All offering their attractions to Hoby and Roby, &c.
This is Paul Pry's Directory, &c.
THE THEATRICAL COACHMAN; OR, HOW TO DRIVE TWO STAGES AT ONE TIME.
From Dunstable to London, merrily,
While, all night, on a stage, he'd play
His part correct and readily:
He was stage-struck, in youth,
By some players, one night,
And, from that time, a stage
Was his only delight.
Cantering,
Bantering,
Splashing on,
Dashing on,
Tooling 'em,
Fooling 'em,
Down the Strand,
Four-in-hand,
Yes, still he drove a stage, all day,
From Dunstable to London, merrily;
While, all night, on a stage he'd play
His part correct and readily.
Than Pointer in “Mail Coach Adventures;”
Nor through his “Trips” could Mathews roam
More free from public censures:
Nor Astley's could show,
Though Ducrow you might see,
More brilliant Equestrian
Spectacles than he.
As down the Strand,
Four-in-hand,
Cantering,
Bantering,
Dashing on,
Splashing on,
Tooling 'em,
Fooling 'em,
For still he drove a stage day, &c.
Knows the “Innkeeper's Daughter” with great facility,
No one can get through a length quicker than he,
He has such rare ability.
In the fam'd “Road to Ruin,”
He ne'er rode, nor will,
Though he's gone through the “Turnpike Gate,”
Oft with great skill.
Ranting
And flaunting,
And tooling,
And fooling,
Cantering,
Bantering,
Down the Strand,
Four-in-hand,
For still Bob drove a stage all day, &c.
THE OMNIBUS.
Sung by Mr. J. Russell, at the Strand Theatre. Music Sold by J. Duncombe & Co, Middle Row, Holborn.
Their fares don't fairly pay the tax,
His whip the coachman sadly smacks,
Such opposition doom'd to know;
And as for all our cabriolets,
Their horses now may dance the hays.
They really cannot make their ways,
But truly sigh, I owe.
Our chariots, not triumphant now,
To other vehicles must bow,
They taste the luxury of woh!
Kew—Putney—with their seven stages,
Droop like Shakspeare's Seven Ages!
For the Omnibus the rage is,
Yes, 'tis all the go.
Droop like Shakspeare's Seven Ages!
Yes, 'tis all the go.
So slender, so genteel, so neat,
To ride inside, 'tis quite a treat,
To go by stages now is low;
No better scheme was ever tried,
For side by side, we equal ride,
To pamper pride, there's no outside,
But all sit in a row;
The march of intellect, you'll own,
Is by the Omnibusses shewn,
Such comfort sure was never known,
For books to cheer us they bestow;
And worthy of supreme remark,
They scorn to keep us in the dark,
But still each night to cheer each spark,
A light on us they throw.
Droop like Shakspeare's Seven Ages!
The Omnibus now all the rage is
Yes, 'tis all the go.
WONDERFUL LONDON.
And Rome, where mobs are undone,
I'll find a subject far more great,
At home, delightful London!
For all the world are shewn up there,
Such marvels are by none done;
There all that's right, and rich, and rare,
The treasures of the earth repair,
Delightful wondrous London!
Of each sweet folly mother;
There, genteel houses, up and down,
All jostle one another.
There all the streets are ever full
Of people made and undone;
And Johnny Bull, walks, cheek by jowl,
With saint and sinner, sage and fool,
Delightful wondrous London!
And bailiffs scare the boldest
And mama's dress, is so like miss,
You scarce know which is oldest.
There coaches, carts, and cabriolets,
By turns each other run down;
While stages, waggons, gig, and chaise,
And vans and drays, block up our ways,
Delightful wondrous London!
Play-house 'gainst work-house labours;
And gin shops greet, sirs, in a street,
The pawn-brokers their neighbours.
Bazaars tempt country ninnyhammers,
Who're by their bargains undone;
With Panoramas, Neoramas,
Georamas, Dioramas,
Delightful wondrous London!
And worth oft wants a dinner,
While vice can silks and satins wear,
And struts a saucy sinner.
There dashing bucks that walk in rules,
Old women knock, for fun, down;
With knaves and fools, and rogues, and tools,
And doctors, proctors, scorning schools,
Delightful wondrous London!
With inside monstrous hollow;
And many a pompous blockhead stalks,
While greater blockheads follow.
And empty cits, that pass for wits,
Prate wisdom with a pun down;
And each man as his fancy hits,
Is grave, or gay, or nought, by fits
Delightful wondrous London!
All sadly husbands wanting;
At mornings frights, but changed at nights,
To angels most enchanting.
And villas, houses, shops to let,
With each convenience known, sirs,
That all perfection seem, but yet
You'll find, when once you in them get,
Are much best let alone, sirs.
New markets, new hotels, too,
New club-houses, and new Lyceums,
New chapels, and new hells, too;
New hospitals, where crowds are killed,
And cures are none in ten done;
New churches, which by scores they build,
Although the old ones ne'er were filled.
Delightful wondrous London!
Quack doctors, poets, lawyers;
Ambassadors from foreign crowns,
Flue-fakers, and top sawyers.
Fine lady-birds, great lords protect,
Who're made by being undone,
And journeymen who work neglect,
All through the March of Intellect,
Delightful wondrous London!
The first in fashion's flocks, sirs;
They beg with double knocks, sirs.
There's remedies for each disease,
Great cures they've every one done,
And charities each woe that ease
With exhibitions all that please,
Delightful wondrous London!
That in the kennel shove you;
Tax-gatherers, aldermen, and thieves,
And ladies that “my love,” you.
There's boxers, actors, sons of fun,
Ward, Curtis, Liston, Munden;
There's every virtue 'neath the sun,
And every vice, too, daily done,
In charming wondrous London.
THREE PART MEDLEY
FIRST PART.
The Nightingale Club, in a village was held,At the sign of the Cabbage and Shears,
Where the singers, no doubt, would have greatly excell'd,
But for want of —
Four-and-twenty fiddlers all of a row,
Four-and-twenty fiddlers —
Peaceful slumbering —
At the town of neat Clogheen,
Where —
The Graces they were gathering posies,
And found —
The finest ram, sir, that ever was fed on hay:
This ram was fat behind, sir, this ram was fat before,
This ram was —
A flaxen-headed cow boy, as simple as may be,
Old King Cole, was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he,
He called for —
The lass of Patie's mill, so bonny, blithe, and gay,
In spite of all my skill, she stole —
A bold dragoon, with his —
O dear! what can the matter be!
Dear, dear, what can the matter be —
For, of all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like pretty Sally,
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives with —
Robin Adair;
What made the ball so fine?
What made the assembly shine?
Oh! it was —
The rum old Commodore,
The battered old Commodore,
For the bullets and the gout,
Have so knock'd his hull about,
That he'll never more be fit for —
The Maid of Lodi, who sweetly sung —
Call again to-morrow, call again to-morrow;
Can't you, can't you, call again to-morrow.
PART SECOND.
A master I have, and I am his man,Gallopping dreary dun,
And he'll get —
A regiment of Irish dragoons, and they were quartered —
In a mouldering cave, the abode of despair;
As Britannia sat weeping her loss —
She mourn'd for her Wolfe, and exclaim'd in despair —
'Twas in the good ship Rover,
I sail'd the world around,
And for ten years, and over,
I never touch'd —
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch!
Wot ye how she cheated me —
In the Bay of Biscay, O!
List, ye landsmen, all to me:
Messmates, hear a brother sailor,
Sing —
Oh, hush thee, my darling, the hour will soon come,
When thy sleep shall be broken, by —
The wood-pecker tapping the hollow beech tree,
The wood-pecker tapping —
Poor Sally's wooden-ware,
Who all for money barters:
Her cottons, tapes, her top-knots rare,
Her bodkins, lace, and —
Paddy Shannon, high mounted, on his trotting little pony,
Who set off on a journey, from Leather lane to Bow,
To ogle Widow Wilkins, whom he courted for—her money,
And, tugging at his bridle, cried —
Don't I look spruce on my Neddy,
In spite of his kicking and prancing?
Gee up, and come hither, boy, steady;
Mr. Neddy, I'm not fond of dancing —
When absent from her, whom my soul holds most dear —
What a medley—what a medley of —
Old chairs to mend! old chairs to mend! —
A very good song, and very well sung,
And we're jolly companions every one —
Thus the Nightingale Club, daily kept up their clamour,
And we're nightly knock'd down, by the president's hammer.
We're nightly, we're nightly knock'd down, knock'd down by the president's hammer!
PART THIRD.
Your pardon, kind gentlefolks, pray,I'm call'd, once more, to roar out a song, sir,
And when a lad's call'd on—they say —
Come bustle, neighbour Prig,
Buckle on your hat and wig,
In your Sunday's clothes so gaily —
Together we will range the fields —
When the wolf in nightly prowl,
Bays the moon with —
Will you come to the bower I have shaded for you?
Your bed shall be —
Where —
Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown,
Ri tol de riddle lol de ray!
The fairest wench in all our town,
Tiddle lol de riddle lol de ray!
If you love me, as I love you, —
On this cold flinty rock, I will lay down my head,
And sweetly I'll sing —
Bound 'prentice to a waterman, I learnt a bit to row,
But, bless your heart, I always was so gay,
That to treat —
An old woman in Yorkshire, in Yorkshire she did dwell —
She lov'd —
Billy Taylor, a brisk young fellow,
Full of mirth, and full of glee.
And his mind he did diskiver —
To a frog, who would a woing go,
Heigho! says Rowley.
Whether his mother would let him or no, with his —
Here's a health to all good lasses!
Here's a health to all good lasses!
Here's a health to —
Our Gracious Queen!
Long live our noble Queen!
God save the Quee
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save the Queen!
CHAPTER OF RHYMES.
And of truth-telling rhymes,
For of wisdom they're full;
First birth rhymes to mirth,
And boy rhymes to toy,
And child rhymes to spoil'd,
And fool rhymes to school;
Then Miss rhymes to kiss,
And kiss rhymes to bliss,
While court rhymes to sport,
And coo rhymes to woo;
Approve rhymes to love,
And love rhymes to dove,
And dove rhymes to grove,
And true rhymes to new.
Then fate rhymes to mate,
And mate rhymes to hate.
And hate rhymes to wait,
By cross spouses oft said,
And wife rhymes to strife,
And home rhymes to roam,
And wed rhymes to bed,
Bed to sleepy head.
And pill rhymes to bill,
And sometimes to kill,
As is very well known,
And flaw rhymes to law,
And law rhymes to jaw,
And jaw to cat's paw,
So law's best left alone.
Then priest rhymes to feast
And feast rhymes to guest,
And guest rhymes to jest,
And roses to posies;
Poet still rhymes to shew it,
And shew it to go it,
And go it to stow it,
And posies to noses.
Revel oft rhymes to evil,
And evil to devil,
Uncivil you'll sigh:
The eye rhymes to cry,
And cry rhymes to sigh,
And sigh to Oh, fie!
And to end all there's die.
Which rhymes to flirtation,
And sly assignation,
Which brings declaration;
Then comes acceptation,
Then solemnization,
Then sweet consummation,
Then gratification;
Then dear fascination,
Then soft palpitation,
And congratulation,
Then grave rumination;
Then fond dubitation,
Then cold alteration,
Then deep tribulation,
Then sad situation;
Then tantalization,
Then strong altercation,
And loud lamentation,
And great aggravation;
Then fierce desperation,
Then determination,
And then detestation,
And last seperation.
THE GENERAL DEALER.
I follow each calling and trade,
Of my shop, I've a catalogue made.
I corns cut, and bleed, too, with care,
Collect the land tax, supply leeches,
Make wine and strong drenches prepare,
In tripe deal, and sell leather breeches.
Then come to my shop, for 'tis fam'd,
There's no one shall use you genteeler,
I'm Hardenbrass Huxtable, nam'd—
Factotum, and general dealer.
Tea and coffee I sell—deal in slops,
I bugs destroy—houses insure,
Dress hair in high style, and make mops;
Vestry clerk, I clean shoes on demand,
Asses milk I supply, too, beside;
Salt and sugar I sell, deal in sand,
Banns publish, and mousetraps provide.
Then come to my shop, &c.
Mend pumps, and teach dancing as well,
Sell all sorts of baits for the angle,
And in catching cock sparrows excel.
Lend newspapers, stray cattle pound.
Practise grindery, sharpen your shears,
Am cryer for twenty miles round,
Sing psalms, too, and pierce ladies' ears.
Then come to my shop, &c.
Am a dealer in dickey birds' seed;
Cure chimnies, sell short-cut for smoking,
Ring pigs, and teach children to read.
Of crockery I've quantum suff,
Each night I've sheepsheads, cold and warm,
Rat-catcher—I deal, too, in snuff,
Sell med'cines, and funerals perform.
Then come to my shop, &c.
When muffins and crumpets I bake,
Can let you have coals from the pool,
In exchange your old iron, too, take.
I marine stores and kitchen stuff buy,
By the yard, sell you butter for tea,
Every day new laid eggs I supply.
All furnish'd (Heaven willing!) by me.
Then come to my shop, &c.
And cider and vinegar brew—
Light lamps, by the year or the quarter,
And let lodgings for single men, do.
Geography taught in two courses
For two pence cut hair by the acre;
Trim dogs go an errands, shoe horses,
With sausages by the real maker.
Then come to my shop, &c.
In playing the fiddle, the first,
Buy hare-skins, sell bonnets and shawls,
Make wills, and contract for your dust.
Of eclipses a certain revealer,
You'll find that I ready and just am,
In all things a general dealer,
So I hope you'll all give me your cnstom.
Then come to my shop, &c.
VOT'S VOT!
And met vot I shall mention—
A man vot though but a country clown,
Vos von vot vanted a pension.
For folks vot go to London,
And saw a man, vot lik'd my looks,
Von vot von't leave nothing undone.
Fol de rol lol, &c.
Pray vot is your decision?
Here's von vot is the slap-up thing,
And von vot's the opposition.
If you are the man vot vants a place,
Here is a coach vot's got von;
Vhich has the horses vot can race.
Vhile t'other's the coach vot has not none!”
Vot makes the titts knock under,
And here's the Guard, vot looks arter your lives,
And vot takes care of the plunder!
And here's the cad vot vaits on me,
Vot catches the flats like vinking,
Vhile master's the svell vot drives so free,
Though 'tis you vot pays the chink in.
I vos von vot got in it
But there vos a rut vot cross'd the road,
And vot spilt us in a minute!
They brought a man vot cur'd each ill,
Says I—‘here's a man vot needs you;”
Says he—“I'm the man vot gives the pill,
The doctor vot sveats and bleeds you.”
But vot I call'd a swindle,
Vos von vot no one could endure,
And vot made my money dvindle;
So he sent a man vot follow'd the law,
Von vot vos an attorney,
Who sent another vot had a claw,
Vot stopp'd me on my journey.
Says he, “I'm von vot makes you;
If you're the covey vot runs avay,”
“Vy I'm the covey vot takes you!
The doctor's the man vot physicks you,
The lawyer's the man vot tricks you,—
And you are the flat vot tries do,
And I am the trap vot nicks you.”
A lass vot dress'd so smart, too;
I felt, for her, vot is call'd love,
In vot is call'd my heart, too.
But though a man vot's us'd to town,
In a vay vot vos wery funny—
I vos the von vot vos knock'd down,
She the von vot got my money!
But vot von't be so no longer,
Vot must reform, for sure as a gun,
We're those vot don't grow younger!
I hope I've said nought vot vill tease,
For that's vot vould amaze us,
For ve're the folks vot tries to please,
And you're the folks vot pays us.
JOHNNY BELL!
No words away e'er throwing;
But Mrs. Bell, was a noisy belle,
For her clapper was alays going.
John cried, I am a stupid elf,
To be jeer'd by all the people,
But I'll hang my cares up, with myself,
So he hung himself in the steeple.
And found, as the story tells,
Among the ropes, the rope where Bell
Was hanging among the bells.
We came to ring a merry round,
For mutton and trimmings, they said—
Our mutton's lost, but we have found,
A man as mutton dead.
Poor Johnny was not dead;
His mortuum rope 'tis true was cut,
Not so his vital thread!
“Why did you do this act so dread?”
They one and all did cry—
Poor Johnny star'd at them, and said,
I hung myself to try.
The steeple high to deck,
Mistress Bell was hanging too,
Round Major George's neck.
John caught them both, and to enrage her,
He thump'd the Major's nob;
For Johnny Bell, he lov'd no major,
But merry Major Bob.
And wonderful, but true,
When death her vital current stopp'd,
Her clapper it stopp'd, too.
Cried John, ‘there is no harmony
Springs from one bell alone,
So I'll get another, whose tongue shall not
Be louder than my own.”
THE PICKWICK TRIAL!
OR, BREACH OF PROMISE OF MARRIAGE!
Sung by Mr. W. J. Hammond, at the Strand Theatre. Music sold by John Dumcombe and Co. 10, Middle Row, Holborn.
That an anxious thing is a trial,
When you've got to rely all
On L-A-W Law!
No matter what it's for,—
Debt, contract, or Faux Pas;
I don't wish the law to disparage,
But I'll tell of a shocking miscarriage,
'Bout a breach of promise of marriage,
I'll show the chance of law,
Which has such a very long claw!
Its Quirks and Vexation.
Expence and Ruination—
Its tricks and its Evasion,
Glorious uncertain law!
Expence and Ruination—
For Tricks and for Evasion
There's nothing like the Law!
And cross-examination,
They prove to demonstration,
What they're contending for.
Each other they clapperclaw,
Till their wigs are ready to thaw—
Like Richard the Third at Drury,
The counsel all sound and fury,
Address'd to the Judge and Jury,
And their attention draw.
You'd think them really at war,
But bless you it is all jaw.
For Quirks and for Vexation,
Expence and Ruination,
For Tricks, and for Evasion,
There's nothing like the Law!
THE MARCH OF INTELLECT; OR, MECHANICAL ACADEMICS.
Sung by Mr. Fitzwilliam and Mr. C. Taylor, at all the Public Concerts, Festival Dinners, &c. Air—Mr. Simpkins.”
Learning's now become mechanical;
Scientific men and scholars,
Are seized with a sudden panic all.
The lower classes in the classic art,
Are penny-trating low;
And operative learning has
So work'd it's way, it's all the go!
Tol lol lol, &c.
And Mechanics Institutions,
The state of things are turning
Upside down, by resolutions.
Plain speaking now is banish'd quite,
All patter metaphorical;
Each dirty court is styled a place,
In manner alleygorical!
Tol lol lol, &c.
For verse, without apology;
Now, if you twice your 'prentice teach,
He'll tell you 'tis taught-ology.
Our journeymen, while walking,
Are all studying toe-pography;
And all who sell last dying speeches,
Prate about Buy-ography.
Tol lol lol, &c.
And talks about Conk-ology;
Are adepts in Crane-iology.
While Mendicants and Paupers.
Quite consistent in their actions,
While breaking stones upon the road,
Still practise Vulgar Fractions.
Tol lol lol, &c.
The dead languages are studying;
While Dustmen, with the ground work
Of the Arts, their brains are muddying.
Clerks, with Pestalozzian systems
Pester us in lectures prolix—
E'en Waggoners, who up hill go,
Are thinking of High-draw-lics.
Tol lol lol, &c.
While studying astronomy,
Call pouring on the milky way,
Political Economy.
Our Gardeners cube roots extract,
Tir'd of earth's dull monotony,
And leave to those who re bawling greens,
The genteel art of Botany.
Tol lol lol, &c.
Just to keep things agoing;
And Carpenters and Sawyers,
Are in Log-arithms knowing
Bricklayers' Lab'rours, to make discoveries,
On their Poles are stopping—
And Butchers, o'er their blocks,
With hic, hec, hoc, are Logic chopping
Tol lol lol, &c.
Are, in their garrets, attic all,
Answer most dog-matical.
O'er their barrows feel the buyers' pulse,
And bawl quite oratorical—
Of their barrow-meters talking,
In manner cat-egorical.
Tol lol lol, &c.
For no silly-gisms standing;
While Cobblers labour to improve
The human understanding.
With compound interest in perspective,
Jewish pedlers' traffic all—
And Ostlers, all their horses, for the road,
Clean geo gruffical
Tol lol lol, &c.
In vain our wits would shirk us—
The Arts are bound apprentices,
Science now's brought to the workhouse.
And learning is so cheap,
No Barber's Clerk complains of scarcity;
Saint Giles will have its College,
Tooley Street its University!
Tol lol lol, &c.
STATE OF THE MARKETS.
Sung by the late Mr. Mathews, in his Entertainments, and at the Haymarket Theatre. Music sold by John Duncombe and Co. 10, Middle Row, Holborn.
And if you, in this crisis,
The Market's state would really learn,
And know the current prices—
Tis I can truly tell you them,
Though every hour they vary;
While Paper's stationary!
Tol, lol, lol, &c.
While snuffs are freely taken:
Per contra, Mats are very flat,
Though Masts remain unshaken.
While Lead, it goes off heavily,
And Leather's at a stand—
But Hops are very brisk indeed,
Though Hemp still hangs on hand.
Tol, lol, lol, &c.
Lively are, and on the go;
And Bristles they are getting up,
While Spirits are but low.
Then Glass has greatly fallen,
But, what needn't much surprise—
'Tis whisper'd 'mongst the Doctors,
Castor Oils are like to rise.
Tol, lol, lol, &c.
Heavy goods are but a drag—
There is a great cry out for wool,
Though Colours somewhat flag.
For Coffee there's a call, altbough
For Blubber few will bid.
The markets are of skins quite bare,
Though Pitch sticks where it did!
Tol, lol, lol, &c.
For Coals a great demand,
Yet Ashes are quite dead, although
We gravell'd are for Sand.
While dry goods have so damp been,
They are scarcely marketable;
Though Hay remains quite stable!
Tol, lol, lol, &c.
And Logwood don't look bright—
On Tallow there's a run,
Though calls for Candles are but light.
Salt and Sugar, lately, are alike—
And, by your leaves, you know,
Within the last few months,
The sale of Teas, has been but sloe.
Tol, lol, lol, &c.
But Chaff's still on the decline—
While Dyes are lively, Opium's a drug,
So, too, is Wine!
Good Deals are down, while Firs are high,
Of Gums there's scarce a sup,
Though Microscopes and Telescopes
Continue looking up.
Tol, lol, lol, &c.
But Tin looks very dull—
Oils go on smooth enough, although
The market's of them full.
Teeth yet retain their hold—Tongues, they
Still continue wagging,
While Starch keeps stiffly up—but Rags are
Really going begging!
Tol, lol, lol, &c.
And Dates cannot be quoted—
Quicksilver's steady—Sables a
Dead article are voted:
Deer Skins are cheaper—Hartshorn is
Reviving 'tis confest;
Though ticking's in request.
Tol, lol, lol, &c.
Are as dull as ever;
Though of Lisbon many parcels,
Are arriving in the River;
While Mountains they are very low, and—
Nay, restrain your laughter—
Horse hair, in tails, continues, as of
Wont, to be look'd after!
Tol, lol, lol, &c,
They really are so bad;
But from our letters still we find,
That Seals are to be had.
Folks cotton much to worsted—
Parchments greatly are engross'd.
And Raisins go off currently—
Though of Horns few cits make boast.
Tol, lol, lol, &c.
Upon the Stock Exchange;
Which proves we're not quite ruin'd yet,
Though some may think it strange.
In Mark Lane—not in Mincing Lane—
I live, and if you're bent
On buying, my Commission, friends,
Is only cent per cent.
Tol, lol, lol, &c.
THE ASSIZE BALL!
Sung by Mr. W. H. Williams, at Sadler's Wells. Music sold by John Duncombe and Co. 10, Middle Row, Holborn.
Buz and humming, hail the coming, of the Judges grave!
Clerks and others, learned brothers, noisily the mob surrounding,
Town Attornies, on their journeys, to destroy and save!
See attendants, poor defendants, for assault and battery;
Angry plaintiffs, who maintain tiffs, foolish fellows all;
Counsel pliant, wealthy client, lots of legal flattery,
Still, though steady, getting ready for th' Assizes Ball!’
Angry plaintiffs, who maintain tiffs, foolish fellows all;
Counsel pliant, wealthy client, lawyers full of flattery,
Drown disquiet, in the riot, of th' Assizes Ball!
Aid me this to celebrate, thy greatest feat of all;
Paris ballets, what are they but pic-nic-ery,
When, we at th' Assizes give our County Ball?
Then is the time for fashion grace, gentility,
Elegance and attitude, agility and style;
Learned brothers, commoners, arts, sciences, nobility,
And county members meeting with a gracious smile!
Elegance and attitude, agility and style,
Learned brothers, Commoners—Arts, Sciences, Nobility!
And county Members meeting with a gracious smile!
With its tales of ruin to the ground must fall,
Audience, or party, assembly, congregation,
See yourselves outnumber'd at the County Ball!
That is the place for crowding, mobbing multitudes,
Pressing beaux and dressing belles, a very motley show,
Folks of every sort and style in all their different altitudes,
All figuring and sniggering on the light fantastic toe!
With its tales of ruin to the ground must fall,
Audience or party assembly congregation,
See yourselves outnumbered at the County Ball!
RAIL ROADS NOW ARE ALL THE GO!
Folks scorn dull foot padding!
Twenty miles an hour's too slow,
For all the world are gadding!
Our 'prentice boys on Saturday
Will start, that they on Sunday,
At York, with their sweethearts may play,
Returning on the Monday.
Rail roads now are all the go,
Folks scorn dull foot padding—
Twenty miles an hour's too slow,
For all the world are gadding.
Through three realms in a night, now;
The march of intellect will prove
No march—'twill be a flight now.
“Come dine with me at the Land's End—
At three; they'll drive like fury—
And see the play at Drury.’
Rail roads now, &c.
Will move on monstrous frisky—
Tons of coals, and loads of flour,
And hogsheads of Cork whiskey!
Droves of hogs, and flocks of sheep,
Pig lead, and hops in pockets,
No more a sober pace will keep,
But fly about like rockets!
Rail roads now, &c.
The lover, hot as Etna,
May start at noon, and long ere night,
His fair one wed at Gretna!
All local love, we now shall scorn,
Our dear wives, Jane, and Nancy,
Will bear their offspring to be born,
Wherever they may fancy!
Rail roads now, &c.
As e'er while in our slow clime;
“Two hundred miles, I'll step across,
And fetch your fan in no time:”
Some friends will come from Birmingham,
To lunch, put on, to treat them,
“These chops, for while you're turning them,
They can come here to eat them.”
Rail roads now, &c.
From law to keep your neck fast—
Just start at light, and you may fight,
In Calais before breakfast!
And if for debt, you're forced to fly,
Twelve bailiffs, upon bombshells;
The rail roads, the essentials!
Rail roads now, &c.
Run down, as I'm a sinner!
To Bath, get shaved, and back again,
Return in time for dinner!”
The lack of fish at Billingsgate,
Henceforth we shall make light on;
“Here John, step down, and bring some scate,
For supper, fresh from Brighton!”
Rail roads now, &c.
Thought, will make them her mail roads;
The lightning to go quicker, now,
Will travel by the rail roads!
To such perfection we shall bring,
The motion that unshrinking,
We travel shall like anything,
And go along like winking!
Rail roads now, &c.
ELECTIONEERING.
Are now Electioneering—
Let me, too be a Candidate,
That you'll give me a Hearing!
I wish to say a few words,
On the Candidates and Backers,
In joke for still Election Squibs,
We know oft turn out Crackers!
Tol, lol, lol, &c.
The true state of the Poll, sirs,
That we must bring the Whigs a head,
If we'd the Crown control, sirs!
While Quince, the loyal Fruiterer,
Who at opposition sorrows,
Vows only good for nothing Meddlars
Rail at rotten Boroughs.
Tol lol lol, &c.
Each strong entreaty spurns, sir,
He will not vote, until he sees,
How they make their returns, sir.
The Tinker vows the state wants mending
That he well can judge it,
And that his member must look
Very sharp about the Budget!
Tol lol lol, &c.
Without a shew of hands, sir;
The Linen Draper says, he best
The Canvas understands, sir.
The Oilman to his colours sticks,
An enemy to mutiny;
The Surveyor and Exciseman,
Meantime, demand a scrutiny!
Tol lol lol, &c.
Enlightened takes the field, sir;
He'll vote for no man, who'll not see
The Window tax repeal'd, sir.
An equal representative is
Still the Tailors' plan, sir—
He'll no more be considered, but
The ninth part of a man, sir.
Tol lol lol, &c.
Has given all their hearings
For him who says he'll guard the
Candles ends and the cheese parings.
But the Poulterer will not poll, sir,
For the Ministry 'tis funny,
Because he says they Ducks and Drakes make
Of the nation's money.
Tol lol lol, &c.
No more abroad may roam, sir,
Want motions made for they
Can kill them fast enough, at home, sirs!
'Gainst Parliaments Triennial
Our Innkeepers rail like Romans;
Long let's bring in our bills, they cry
We're no friends of short Commons.
Tol lol lol, &c.
Vote, but, that's a thumper;
The Scavenger cries burn me but
I'll give my man a Plumper.
Pickpockets join the throng too,
Crying let's be in the vogue, sir—
We've every year our sessions
Which we every year prorogue, sir.
Tol lol lol, &c.
The Corn laws stick out still, sir;
Give us the man they say who will
Bring more grist to our mill, sir.
To get you in e'en strolling Actors still
Your measures greet sir,
If for their Benefit's, you ll
In their house try for a seat, sir.
Tol lol lol, &c.
Each Members praise berhyme
Because they can get their pro-ductions
Read a second time, sir.
Your Hosier and wool Stapler, too,
Think in these times of peace sir,
They may support the woolsack,
And not the public fleece, sir.
Tol lol lol, &c.
'Tis his strong resolution
With genuine malt and hops still
To support the Constitution!
The Aldermen think they should
Have the power to frank, and witty
Cry “Why friends should our
Freedom be confin'd to our own City?”
Tol lol lol, &c.
Each wife cries, as you seek her,
And pray bring in a Bill that
There should be a female Speaker.
Your daughter cries she'd like to have
A seat—nay, do not scoff, sir.
“Why, Hussey?” “'Cause Pa in the House,
There's so much pairing off, sir.
Tol lol lol, &c.
They'll well deserve our thanks, sir,
Who will reduce the sinking fund,
Encrease the saving banks sir.
Let's hope the best man still may win,
And wish, without detraction,
That each general election, may
Give general satisfaction!
Tol lol lol, &c.
THE BOARDING SCHOOL PLAY.
Sung by Mrs. Fitzwilliam, at Vauxhall Gardens, The Surrey and Adelphi Theatres, &c. Air “Frozen River.”
To boarding-school miss, and to teacher,
And thoughts of home repay annoy
From Governess when she turns preacher,
And neglect awakes all her fury:
Then dull learning girls spurn
The old school-room they turn,
To a theatre gay,
For the breaking-up play,
Tasks and samplers thrown by,
For some deep tragedy,
For there's more delight in a play at school,
Than at Covent Garden or Drury.
Than at Covent Garden or Drury.
Makes the lesser scholars tremble,
And struts and frets upon the scene,
Like Siddons, O'Neill, Kean and Kemble!
Now melting, and now in a fury!
Hose and doublet they wear—
Ah, then, youths have a care!
It is but to try
How they'll fit—by and bye,
You in turn, too, may weep
Through their tragedy deep!
For there's more delight in a play at school,
Than at Covent Garden or Drury!
Than at Covent Garden or Drury.
THE DOWN EASTER.
Sung by Mr. G. H. Hill, the Celebrated American Comedian, at the Queen's Theatre, Olympic. &c. Music sold by John Duncombe and Co. 10, Middle Row, Holborn.
On Marble Hill, a nester;
A regular Down Easter!
'Twas longest day when I was born,
And not all fools, I thank'ye;
For I'm, though Northerners may scorn,
A real down right Yankey.
My dad he was a clever dog,
A meetin he was Dean of—
And I—why I'm a Hickory log
With the bark so slick and clean off.
Must not possess a slow pen,
For I was born with wisdom teeth,
And both my eyes wide open.
As hard as rock, as slick as silk,
That none should ever head me;
For pap they gave me mush and milk,
And then with sweet saarse feed me.
My dad, &c.
In turning dumps to dollars;
I flogged my master out and out,
And then whipp'd all the scholars.
At making bargains, all the folks
Thought me a tarnal Crittur—
I bought and sold myself, for jokes,
And fairly beat all natur.
My dad, &c.
From steam boat to a save all;
My store shall fetch what it will bring,
For I'll of best most, have all.
If when I sleep my eyes I close,
I'm such a funny jester—
You'll find cock'd up my ears and nose,
A regular Down Easter!
My dad, &c.
THE TWELVE COMPANIES.
Or else it were a pity;
So bound to to you, my friends, I'll take
My freedom in the City.
To praise our noble Companies
I'll socially endeavour,—
“The Twelve Companies of London!
May they flourish still for ever!”
Tol de rol, &c.
Like bubbles daily breaking,
We're doubly bound to value those
That never were found shaking.
So strong in all good works they've stood,
They ne'er were known to shrink,
And supported by such noble bulwarks,
London ne'er can sink!
Tol de rol, &c.
Must dear be to the Muses;
The best aid of the Poet—
Who to sing their praise refuses?
Still may they stationary be,
For learning's circulation:
For paper currency we know,
Has often sav'd the nation.
Tol de rol, &c.
They balm our mortal ills;
And I could physic those, who would
Run down their draughts and pills!
We owe that health to them—
May they but want their drugs for those,
Their labours who'd condemn!
Tol de rol, &c.
While we've of gratitude a spark,
We must not let the Tallow Chandlers' light
Shine in the dark.
There's none that more deserve,
Their fellow-citizen's applause,
For they are form'd in Honour's mould,
And burn in virtue's cause
Tol de rol, &c.
Now that we have clear'd the cloth?
Success be your's—I'm sure none here
To drink it will be loth.
And, while we're o'er our wine, should we
The Vintner's merits pass?
Such want of taste might well make us
Asham'd to face the glass.
Tol de rol, &c.
And the lasting deeds they've wrought—
The city's best sheet anchor—
Let us hail them as we ought!
The Merchant Tailors' praise, too,
It fitting is we should,
For they suit every one complete—
Their measures are so good.
Tol de rol, &c.
His approbation's meed,
I only this will say,
Is well deserving to be flead.
Has been so often tried,
And pass'd current through the world,
It alike is London's pride!
Tol de rol, &c.
None here can e'er forget;
Long may you flourish, and still find
All fish that comes to net.
In actions of humanity
The Drapers' first we view;
They feed the poor and hungry,
And they clothe the naked too.
Tol de rol, &c
Of the Grocers ne'er can be;
For in all the sweets of life,
They found at home are to a T.
Their goodness, after dinner,
Our ladies still confess,
An example, sirs, so fair,
That we, sure, can do no less.
Tol de rol,
Or made, at least, endeavour:
I'll, in conclusion, hope again,
They flourish may for ever!
In wishing well to Companies,
So kind is your reception—
I beg the present company
May not be an exception!
Tol de rol, &c.
THE NIGGER PLAY!
OR ROMEO AND JULIET AT BOSTON!
Sung by Mr. Rice, the Celebrated Jim Crow Performer of American Negro Characters, at the Adelphi and Surrey Theatres. Air—“Ackee O.”
Whisking here, frisking there!—
Free from Buckra mans employ,
Him to play repair!
Immortal Shakespeare den him hack,
Poor Othelly, hero black!
Richard, wid him hump on back!
Strut him here! stamp him there!
Oh, then it is gay day!
Gladly, all de world repair
To de Nigger Play!
To de Nigger Play!
Whisk him here, frisk him there;
Clebber Nigger, strike him dumb,
When him stamp and stare!
Roll him eye, like any ting,
Den him dance, and den him sing,
Colour lass she fondly cling,
Whisk her here, frisk her dere!
Oh, den it is a gay day!
Gladly, all de world repair
To de Nigger Play!
To de Nigger Play!
THE LIFE OF AN ACTOR!
Ever fond of play and toy,
Attracted first my gaze
I read, and I admir'd,
To stage fame I soon was fir'd,
I was dying to become a tragic hero!
My master vowed, at school,
I was very far from fool;
And the usher smirk'd about,
When at breaking-up I'd spout;
Pa swore 'twas monstrous fine,
Ma vowed it was divine:
“He born was for an actor, never fear O!”
Squinting eye—legs awry,
Head like mop—dirty chop,
Hey down, ho down, derry derry down!
This the first stage of an actor's life is---c ear O!
I descended to the kitchen,
And of success ne'er doubting,
Next tried my hand at spouting;
Gad I prov'd it was no joke,
That I cut out was to be a tragic hero!
My he met a dish cover,
I a chieftain look'd all over;
Armed cap-a pee, as fit,
My spear a kitchen spit,
My shield the dripping pan,
'Gad I then was more than man,
More murders I committed, than did Nero!
Meets while I—with passion fry;
Carving knife—take your life.
Hey down, ho down, derry, derry down,
This an actor's second stage is, it is clear O!
Now who knows but being loyal,
Soon, some Theatre Royal,
My talents may engage,
And soon upon the stage,
I may spout my loves and pains,
Playing Barbarossa, Bajazet, and Nero.
How my bosom then will swell,
As I hear the prompter's bell—
While round goes the buz and whiz—
That is he, ma'am! Yes, it is!
What an eye, and what an air!
Quite a Roscius, I declare!
That's the gentleman—that's our new tragic hero!
Let it pass—death's a farce,
Youth and age,—quit the stage—
Hey down, ho down, derry, derry down,
This is the last stage of an actor's life, 'tis clear, O!
REAL HISTORY OF JIM CROW.
Written expressly for Mr. T. D. Rice, (from materials furnished by himself ) and sung at the Congratulatory Dinner of the Society of “The Crows,” Air—“Negro Melody.
And when boy in ole Virginny,
Just because him born in Guinea!
Wheel about, and turn about,
And jump jist so;
Ebbery time him wheel about,
Him jump Jim Crow.
Dat him get, upon de shelf
Until him save up money
Enough to buy himself,
Wheel about, &c.
And be de fire stoker,
Where him prove sich a screamer,
Dat dey call him de black poker!
Wheel about, &c.
Upon de Missisippi,
Up and down him sail about,
And when him massa whippy,
Wheel about, &c.
Of works dey make him oiler,
And him put 'em in a panic,
When him 'splain about de boiler!
Wheel about, &c.
For ebbery ting him know,
And him show de coals no quarter,
When him jump Jim Crow!
Wheel about, &c.
To make de paddles go;
So good as poor Jim Crow!
And make him quite a show,
For ebbery one knock under
When him jump Jim Crow!
Wheel about, &c.
And let all de oders go,
Wid him thumb place in de middle,
Jist as Paganini do.
Wheel about, &c.
Him go down to L below;
And ebbery one who hear him,
Dance and jump Jim Crow!
Wheel about, &c.
So well him know de greens,
That when him horticultural,
Him tell ebbery ting dey means.
Wheel about, &c.
And how de pistols blow;
And den him eats de peaches,
Jist to show 'em how dey grow.
Wheel about, &c.
Him work by steam again,
And cunning Yankee tell him,
Dat him still upon de main.
Wheel about, &c.
And as him famous poet,
Dat ebbery body know it.
Wheel about, &c.
Who draw sich great long bow—
Put a bear in him coat pocket,
When him out a hunting go.
Wheel about, &c.
To let de natives know,
What clebber people niggers are,
Most 'specially Jim Crow.
Wheel about. &c.
It was my fortune to be the medium of first introducing this Gentleman to what he facetiously—though. I dare say, unintentionally—terms the Brutish Public, in an autograph copy of instructions for a Bill of his First Appearance at the Surrey Theatre, in my possession. I told my old friend, Mr, Davidge, when he informed me of his intention to give Mr. Rice an engagement, and requested me to appeal to the Public in his behalf, that it would be either a hit or miss—that the performance was one of that singular outre description, that, like the unmeaning and vulgar expressions of “Flare up!” “Who are you?” &c. if tt once took, it must for a time become what the French call the fureur, but that every thing depended upon its being properly managed—an opinion in which that most judicious Manager immediately acquiesced. The first night was properly managed, and the result justified my judgment. Both Mr. Davidge and Mr. Rice then applied to me to write an Original Piece for the Introduction of Jim Crow. I stated my doubts of any regular Drama, with that character in it, succeeding. I did not consider the representation at all a legitimate one—I will even say, a Dramatic one. Mr. Rice's talent appeared to me to be completely perse odd, out of the way, extravagant and extemporaneous—I could not conceive a Dramatist could profitably embody it. I was, however, over persuaded, and after losing much time, and spending much money, in making myself acquainted with all the humourous varieties of the American character, finished a Drama, rather to my mind, which was accordingly announced and put in rehearsal at the Surrey Theatre: but, although written by Mr. Rice's desire, and in some measure from materials furnished by himself, it would appear he felt the force of the objections I had originally urged. He complained, first, that another character was better than the one assigned to him—then, that there were some political allusions in the Piece, which were immediately struck out—with other puerile remarks, and finally backed out of the affair altogether; leaving me only my six weeks labour to repay me for all my expenditure of time and money in his behalf. Fortunately, my exertions for those intelligent and perfect American Actors, Messrs. Hackett and G. H. Hill, were rather more gratefully requited, or I might now be seated on Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen's Bench.
The Song above was one of the Songs of this Piece, and was written from some of the materials I have alluded to, furnished me for that purpose by Mr. Rice himself, and which he assured me were authentic. The real Jim Crow, it appears, was a slave from Guinea, located originally in Virginia; where, through his industry, he managed to purchase his own freedom, and was engaged as a stoker, on board a steamer plying between Louisville and New Orleans. He afterwards engaged as Ostler in New York; where he attracted much attention, by making extemporary doggrel verses on everything and everybody. He was an acute and merry fellow, and gave birth to the Song that has given him such a Bartholomew Fair immortality.
It is pleasant to think Mr. Rice's clever imitation of Jim's peculiarities have been rewarded as they have been. Not only has he gained an abundance of renown and money in this country, but he managed to carry away from us a rich and beautiful wife—Miss Gladstanes—and is now clearing upwards of eighty pounds a night in the States—Cousin Jonathan declaring that the approbation of the English is quite sufficient to prove him the first Actor in the World. Poor Paulo—who so admirably personated the original prototype of Jim Crow, “Billy Waters,” in my Drama of “Tom and Jerry,”—was less fortunate; as was that admirable Actor, Webster, who first sung “Jim Crow” in this Country, at the English Opera House some years ago. It is better to be born lucky than rich!
THE LIFE OF A COLLEGIAN.
Fagging and tagging, poring, boring,
Haven't their nobs o'erstocked with knowledge;
Life in a college is full of glee;
'Tis learning, quaffing, joking, laughing,
Cheating the grave wigs, so merrily;
Revelling, cavilling, holidays, jolly days,
Logic and sophistry thought go free.
Very good fellows, getting mellow,
Carol old Rose, and burn the bellows.
Jolly young students, tutors grave,
Proctors cheating, slily meeting,
Slighting the sages, some pretty girl's slave;
Funning and punning, and dunning aud running,
Caring for nought if their bacon they save.
Cursed dry study, brain gets muddy—
Tutor pops a sentence pat in;
Gain a degree, make holiday—
Read old Homer, get diploma,
While others are plucked and sent away;
Spluttering, muttering, hammering, stammering,
We are the true Geeeks—huzza! huzza!
NATIONAL WASHERWOMEN!
They're all washing, the Company by steam!
Dukes, Bishops, Earls, Lords, they have all got a share,
Judges, Councillors, and half the House of Commons, too, are there!
They have all turn'd old women, and pay them, 'tis true,
There's nothing so dirty, they will not soon get through,—
And they're all washing, wash—wash—washing,
They're all washing, the company by steam!
Looking after the collars, and the mantles, and the laces;
The Bishops are up to their elbows in lawn,
And have all got their aprons on, 'tis true as you are born,
And they're all washing,&c.
Though they're most of them rather the worse for wear and tear
And the Lawyers have all got blue bags in their hands.
And they're all washing, &c.
While Generals and Captains, give the petticoats no quarter;
Fastly lathering away, to fill their lines quite willing,
And propping up the great things, and looking very killing.
And they're all washing,&c.
While Merchants from the City, still toil o'er their counter pains;
The Aldermen are over the table cloths haranguing,
And the Judges are, all on the grounds, out a hanging!
And they're all washing, &c.
East India Directors hanker chiefly for the shawls;
From the College of Physicians, half the faculty are dangling,
With the heads of Surgeons' Hall, to be ready for the mangling.
And they're all washing, &c.
The Society of Friends are there too, furnishing the starch;
To second all the small things, there's M. P's, as is quite proper,
And directors of mines, head and ears in the copper.
And they're all washing, &c.
They prescribe their sud-rifies, and their soap-oifics too;
From Duke's Place, the tribe of Israel their clothes bags in are bringing,
And many a dashing belle, while fast her clapper runs, is wringing.
And they're all washing,&c.
And declare they will give these old women a rub;
The subscribers will quickly be put to their shifts!
And they're all washing, &c.
“WHAT ARE YOU AT—WHAT ARE YOU AFTER?”
To rest from all my labours,
And hear what cocknies had to say,
That I might tell my neighbours.
But all I heard, upon my word,
Was this, in every quarter—
Some bawling out, ‘What are you at?’
And some, ‘What are you after?’
With your tol de rol, &c.
And cried, ‘What's that to you, sir?
If you take me a rogue to be,
I'll let you know who's who, sir!’
So right and left, I laid them flat,
Says I, ‘You've caught a Tartar—
Now go and cry, “What are you at?”
And bawl, “What are you after?”’
With your tol de rol, &c.
And lugg'd me off to prison;
I ax'd them, what it was they meant?
They said, to stretch my wizen!
They took me where the justice sat,
Who gave my purse no quarter—
Which made me cry, ‘What are you at?’
Good judge, ‘What are you after?’
With your tol de rol, &c.
I walk'd into the Strand, sir—
Where soon a charming lass I saw,
None fairer in the land, sir.
Says I, ‘I'll have a kiss, that's flat!’
For never lass look'd smarter;
When she squall'd out. ‘What are you at?
You wretch! What are you after?’
With your tol de rol, &c.
That I the freak might rue, sir,
She did my fob of gold watch rob,
And pick'd my pocket, too, sir.
So I went home to hang myself,
From bed post, in my garter—
When hostess cried, ‘What are you at?
Young man, What are you after?’
With your tol de rol, &c.
I sent the doctor to, sir;
He gave me blister, powder, pill,
And draught, and bolus, too, sir.
So, very soon, I found myself,
To physic falling martyr,
Which made me cry, ‘What are you at?
Doctor, What are gou after?’
With your tol de rol, &c.
Went, to reduce his fees, sir—
But, ecod! I found the remedy,
Was worse than the disease, sir.
For where the lawyer sav'd a pound,
He made me twenty barter,
Which caus'd me cry, ‘What are you at?
Oh, law! What are you after?’
With your tol de rol, &c.
And lash'd 'em left and right, sir;
I think I'll thank you for your law,
And wish you all good night, sir—
For if I longer make my strain.
And urge the songster's charter,
You may cry out, ‘What are you at?
Singer, ‘What are you after?’
With your tol de rol, &c.
THE YANKEY NOTIONIST.
Sung by Mr G. H. Hill, the celebrated American Comedian, at the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh. Air—“Paris Revels.”
And am no great grammarian,
Yet I'm a first chop notionist,
And cute Utilitarian;
But that my word you may not doubt,
Nor jump at my pretensions—
I guess I'll just the list run out,
Of my bran new inventions!
Steam and gas, go slick a a-head,
To all things we can' t'wixt em;
Fortunes now are only made,
By the High Pressure system.
Which have such wondrous power.
They'll go wherever you may choose—
One hundred miles an hour!
They'll steer on active as a rocket,
You'll find to them no fellows;
If you've but coal enough in pocket,
To urge on the impellers.
Steam, and gas, &c,
Which in a brace of courses,
But raise the wind for horses.
Never mind what people preach,
Though they my carriage run down—
You'll safely terra firma reach,
If properly you come down.
Steam, and gas, &c.
Though folks may think me frantic;
A suspension rail road I'll erect
To cross o'er the Atlantic!
A million floating capital,
Expences to be bearing,
My shares for their gold have they shall
For it's all done by sharing.
Steam, and gas, &c.
Each malady they rout, sir, quite—
For such their power—they in an hour
Will turn you inside out, right!
My lozenge to stop women's tongues,
I pride myself for making them;
A box will stop the noisiest lungs,
They can't talk while they're taking them.
Steam, and gas, &c.
Throws gowns off for each gay day,
For thirteen pence, worth half a guinea,
And makes each wench a lady.
'Tis by mechanic's I do all,
The fire-grate, and the kettle;
Want what you will, you've but to call
My friends on Doctor Whittle.
Steam, and gas, &c.
NEWS FROM HOME;
OR, BREAKING IT OUT BY DEGREES.
Squire.Why, who'd e'er have thought, that to town you'd have come, John—
But I glad am to see you, when all's done and said.
What brings you to London, and what news from home, John?
John.
Faith bad enough, sir, for the magpie be dead!
Squire.
Eh! what? Poor old Mag gone the way of all living—
What occasioned her death? Zounds! this is something fresh!
John.
Over-ate herself—
Squire.
Ah! she to guttling was given!
But what did she gorge herself with, John?
John.
Horseflesh?
Ambo.
[Very dolefully.]
Tol lol lol, &c.
Squire
Eh! horseflesh! Where could she get so much in one day?
John.
Your father's stud, sir—
Squire.
Ah! the best in all York!
Has he lost any horses?
John.
Yes, five died last Monday—
Squire.
Died! what did they die of?
John.
Faith, sir, overwork!
Squire.
You astonish me quite! Why what work'd them so hard there?
John.
Bearing water to put out the fire that we found—
Squire
Eh! fire, John—what fire?
John.
The fire in the farm yard, there,
Which burnt your poor father's house down to the ground!
Ambo.
(Dolefully.)
Tol lol lol, &c.
Squire.
My father's house burnt! Who is of it accus'd, then?
John.
The torches, 'tis thought, sir, were chiefly in fault.
Squire.
The torches! what torches?
John.
Why those that were us'd, when
Squire.
My mother dead!
John.
Yes—the bad tidings excuse, sir—
Squire
Of course from my father a letter you bear?
John.
No, sir, he's dead, too—he received the bad news, sir,
And, poor gentleman! died the next day in despair.
Ambo.
(Dolefully)
Tol lol lol, &c.
Squire.
Bad news, eh? what news?
John.
Why the run on his bank, there—
Squire.
Impossible!
John.
Sir, 'tis as true as you're born
Squire.
Why his with the very first houses might rank there—
John.
But now it's stopp'd payment—its credit is gone!
Squire.
Stopp'd payment!
John.
Yes, sir—you are not worth a shilling—
I grieve, for you still were the kindest of masters,
So I took the York waggon, for I, sir, were willing,
To break by degrees to you all your disasters.
Ambo.
(Dolefully.)
Tol lol lol, &c.
JACK ASS'S CONCERT!
OR, FOREIGN MUSICIANS.
Sung by Mr. W. J. Hammond, at Doncaster, &c. The Music composed by the Author, and sold by John Duncombe and Co. 10, Middle Row, Holborn.
And a very good looking jackass,
Resolv'd, on a time, though I cannot tell when,
But I know that the thing came to pass;
To set up for foreign musicians, and travel
Until they a fortune had made—
For the jackass—no ninny—observed, Paganini,
Had proved it a very good trade.
Ech haw! bow, wow! tuck, tuck! mi-eau!
And cock-a-doodle-doo!
Sing tweedle-de-dum, and flummery hum,
Upon my soul, sirs, it's all true. Oh, yes!
Upon my soul, sirs, it's all true!
The cat could go up very high;
The hen, a beginner, chim'd in as a tenor, quite
Well, as you'll find by-and-bye!
The ass, a good tune, play'd upon his bassoon,
And the cock blew the clarionet;
When together they play'd, such a concert they made—
It was one you could never forget!
Ech aw. &c.
The cat was a great Catalani;
When mewing, 'twas music that flow'd from her tongue,
While the cock got great fame in Giovanni!
So their farm-yard they left, and the high road pursued,
Determined, at once, to begin;
And to get them good houses, the dog said he would,
Every night bark the audience in!
Ech aw, &c.
The country they wandered about;
When it struck the jackass, that for want of an inn,
They would all be obliged to sleep out.
But, in searching around, they an empty house found,
So snug that it made the cock sing—
“We can roost here to-night, and you'll find, when 'its light,
To perform in 'twill be just the thing!”
Ech aw, &c.
“It may serve a rehearsal or two!
But excuse me for saying, dear friends, when you're
Playing you'll find empty houses won't do!’
Well their concert they gave, and the empty house fill'd,
For the natives flock'd in by the score—
The ass bray'd, the cock crew, the hen cluck'd, the dog bark'd,
The cat mew'd, and all bellow'd “Encore!”
Ech aw, &c.
And so much they were deem'd to excel;
The people their own native singers hissed off—
Our artists alone bore the bell.
And the ass, with a sneer, as they prais'd his great ear
Said—“'Twas ever so, friends—let it pass—
I'm not the first fine foreign singer, by scores,
That in truth has been but a jackass.”
Ech aw, &c.
To admire them was thought such gentility.
Their money to save, soon their concerts they gave,
In the houses of all the nobility.
When loaded with wealth, they return'd 'twas by stealth,
To their own native plains, where now snug,
With signor, and monsieur, they at Johnny Bull sneer,
And his passion for foreign humbug!
THE FIDDLELESS DANCING MASTER!
Sung by Mr. J. Russell, in the “Strand-ed Actor.” [The singing of this Song is usually prefaced, for the better understanding of it, by the following remarks. A country Dancing Master, going to give a lesson to a young lady, unfortunately lost, or mislaid his fiddle. What to do he knew not—his pupil could not dance without music, and music there was none, except he could make some. He therefore bethought himself of the expedient of substituting a vocal for the instrumental accompaniment, and accordingly sung the tune to which the young lady's steps were to be regulated; but as he had continually to keep giving directions, and yet could not leave off singing, he was obliged to set them to music, and make them form a part of the harmony; the ludicrous effect of which may be more easily conceived than told by the singing of the following imitation.] Air—‘Hey for the life of a Soldier’
Tol de rol lol lol—not too low;
Ti tum—mind how you bend your knees—
Tol de rol lol lol—hold up your head,
Ri tum tiddle tum—point your toe;
Zounds! you don't mind a word I've said,
Fal lal—how can you blunder so?
Tooral looral—don't you see?
Third position—fal lal lal!
Chassee, cross hands—set to me—
Zounds! the devil's in the girl!
Ri tol diddle dol—right and left!
Doodle doodle—down the middle—
Zounds! you're sure of sense bereft—
Where the devil is my fiddle?
Ri tol, &c.
Whack fal diddle dal—try again;
Now swing corners—gently there,
I shall ne'er get on that's plain!
Hey down derry—look at me,
Rump ti iddity—you're behind,
How can you so stupid be?
Lango dillo do miss mind!
Tol de rol lol lol—up and down,
Ti tum ti—give me your hand;
Mind, zounds! or, you'll crack your crown.
Tang tang tweedle—allemand.
Tiddle dum dido—that's the way,
Chip chow cherry chow—how you sidle;
What would Taglioni say?
Where the devil is my fiddle?
Tol de rol, &c.
You must cut with greater force;
Row dow dow dow—curse the tune,
Tooral tooral—I'm quite hoarse.
Yankey Doodle—now then go,
Chaine en dame—ri tiddle ti tum,
Pick it up, miss—diddle di dum.
Bow wow—this will be my death,
You're as stupid as a post;
Whack fal—I'm quite out of breath,
Tol lol—I'll give up the ghost!
Do you hear, miss, what I say?
Was there ever minx so idle?
We must leave off for the day—
I wish the devil had my fiddle.
Ri tol lol, &c
CHAPTER OF TOASTS, AND SONGS OF SENTIMENTS.
But I cannot say that is my tether;
To part heart and harmony sure must be wrong,
Song and sentiment I join together:
So at once in a song I'll my sentiments give,
Sure you'll all approve what I am giving—
Here's “The Queen, Heaven bless her, and long may she live,
With “Old England, the land that we live in!”
For in each care and ill she'll relieve him;
“Sweet home” for though homely, 'tis home for all that,
With a “Friend, and a bottle to give him.”
Here's “May honour, and honesty never decline,”
'Tis the wish of my heart, I assure ye;
“May justice and mercy for ever entwine,”
With our glorious “Trial by Jury.”
“May the honest heart ne'er know distress;”
“May we have in our arms, what in heart we love first;”
“All those that bless us may we bless.”
“Honest men, pretty women,” for ever!
“Play houses full, and Workhouses empty,”
And “May worth and want finally sever.”
And “The man that was never ungrateful;”
Here's “May we the smiles of good humour possess,
With friends around, cheerful and faithful.”
Here's “Our old wooden walls” that still lay our foes flat,
With those treasures, “Wives, Children, and Friends;”
Here's “Our own noble selves” and now having drank that
Here my song of good sentiment ends.
PUNCH'S OPERA.
As sure as you are born
They are bringing Mr. Punch,
With his belly and his hunch!
Yes, attracted by the noise,
See the little girls and boys,
All crowding to behold him, in a bunch here!
Now, they stop,
Stand they drop,
Bugle sounds,
Crowd surrounds—
Man gets in,
To begin!
I can't see,
What's that to me?
Mind my toes—
Oh, my nose!
Oh, bravo! what a hero's Mr. Punch, sir!
Loud shout the little boys
The girls prick up their ears,
Mr. Punch, again appears!
Hark! be's calling for his horse,
'Tis brought to him of course—
An appetite to get him for his lunch, oh
Now gavotting,
See, he's trotting—
Now, he canters,
Jokes, and banters—
In the saddle,
Mounts a straddle—
Takes the reins,
Then with pains—
Sure he's thrown!
What a wonderful hero's Mr, Punch, sir!
But now the ends in view,
You'll find 'tis very true,
For they're coming with the hat,
None can sure object to that.
See, they've brought Punch to the gallows,
Who hardened seems and callous—
Though a chokey-pear they are swearing he shall munch, sir.
Cap and rope,
Little hope—
Mister Ketch,
Neck to stretch;
Dance on nothing—
Ticklish touch
Drop too much,
Though they tell him he in paradise will lunch, sir.
LONDON ADULTERATIONS:
OR, ROGUES IN GRAIN. &c.
They adulterate all they've in warehouse and shop!
You must buy what they sell, and they'll sell what they please,
For they would, if they could, sell the moon for green cheese.
Sing tantarantara, what rogues.
Every thing imitated is, in this rare age;
Tea, Coffee, Beer, Butter, Gin, Milk—and in brief,
No doubt they'll soon imitate mutton and beef.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
Ting'd with Dutch pink and verdigris just like Bohea.
What Sloe poison means, sirs, I quickly found out,
We shall to a T soon be poison'd, no doubt.
Sing tantarantara, &c
And burnt horse-beans for Coffee—how can such things be?
Now I really do think, those who make such a slip,
And treat us like horses, deserve a horsewhip!
Sing tantarantara, &c.
Milks his pump night and morn, quite as oft as his cows;
Claps you plenty of chalk in your score—what a bilk?
And, egad, claps you plenty of chalk in your milk.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
But just mention alum, you'll make him turn sour;
His ground bunes and pebbles turn men skin and bone,
We ask him for bread, and he gives us a stone.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
And oft for South-down sells an old mountain ram;
Bleeds poor worn-out cows, to pass off for white veal,
For which he deserves to die by his own steel.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
For with kitchen-stuff oft he his butter compounds;
His fresh eggs are laid over the water, we know,
For which, faith! he over the water should go.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
For we soon find no hops have hopp'd into his beer;
'Stead of malt he from drugs brews his porter and swipes,
So no wonder that we have so oft the drug-gripes.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
And finds his returns of such trash still succeeds;
With snuff of ground-glass and dust oft we are gull'd,
And for serving our noses so, his should be pull'd.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
With sloe-juice and brandy makes our Port at home:
The Distillers their gin have with vitrol fill'd,
So 'tis clear they're in roguery double distill'd.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
But don't think I suppose we have any rogues here;
Present company's always excepted you know,
So wishing all rogues their deserts, I must go.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
A SONG ON PAPER.
To sheets of papers that are blank, compared the infant mind, sirs;
On which as growing sense dictates, or fate decrees their lot, sirs,
Virtue writes fair characters, or vice imparts a blot, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
To make you laugh, which you will do, if 'tis but in your sleeves, sirs;
There's various sorts of paper, as of men, and prove it I can, sirs,
Each sort of paper, somehow, represents some sort of man, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
What are they, take them all in all, but merely emboss'd paper;
More fit for shew than use—while rich men, 'self call'd our betters,
Are but gilt paper, not in common given, sirs, to letters.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Are coarse brown paper, but for all that, still they have their worth, sirs;
They're strong, our goods they hold secure, although to feed our pride, sirs,
As on we journey through life's road in parcels they're outside, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Which next to beauteous objects to prevent set off, we place, sirs.
Your Lawyer is brief paper, and as many one atleges,
Is full of rules, likes cutting close, that is, about the edges!
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
The best white paper are, each one a pure unsullied sheet, sirs;
On which the happy man whom fate to call his own ordains, sirs;
Can write his name, and blest for life, may take her for his pains, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Why, take both those who're read, and those who are not read at all, sirs;
They and their works believe me, in the same class you find, sirs,
Clapp'd on the shelf, and but the mere waste paper of mankind, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c,
The Statesman is post paper, and alike is bought and sold, sirs;
Your Prude she is touch paper, that a spark pretends to fear, sirs,
While the Drunkard's blotting paper, that drinks up all it comes near, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Your Glutton is pot paper, whose small water mark's scarce seen, sirs;
While there's such a thing as foolscap paper, want no other name, sirs,
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Although according to their stock, they're sometimes at discount, sirs;
Your Gambler is card paper, and by Cobbet we are told, sirs,
There's no such real gambling as paper against gold, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Whom John Bull keeps in boards cut to demy, and has well mill'd, sir;
Victoria's royal paper, and though Dan O'Connell frown, sirs,
And try to dissolve the Union, will ne'er yield to double crown, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
And the London actors, artists all have prov'd they're drawing paper;
As for me I'm tracing paper, that don't wish to offend, sirs,
And should say more about paper, but my paper's at an end, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
CHAPTER OF SLANG.
High and low, and middle classes, studying close—
Poets now write nothing else, while orators harangue in it,
Poor Doctor Johnson's nose put out of joint by Captain Grose.
So classic, comprehensive, so comic, and so terse it is,
Old Oxford, aye, and Cambridge, too, all at their universities,
To study prime St. Giles's Greek, and bark out rum dog latin.
Their mother tongue they patter it—the pedant's frown defy,
The higher classes boast they're up, and young sprigs of nobility,
Roses, pinks, and tulips, now are regularly fly;
While Dusty Bob and Afric Sal don't stand upon gentility,
But swear they're down, and leery coves with just the same facility:
And as your Toms and Jerrys on their sprees larks, rambles, pass his way,
Old watchey swears that he's awake, and knows full well the time of day.
The sportsman that he knows an oss for harness or for hunt,
The soldier boasts, of milling hosts, and flooring foes where're they meet,
Stock brokers prate of bulls and bears, lame ducks, and lots of blunt.
Young ladies study fancy works, and with their ogles flash away,
In hopes too hook some nob that they may lead the ton and dash away,
No grammer-schools, like hammer-schools, and he must be a ninny-hammer,
Who cannot hammer flash in him, and patter it without a grammer,
THE TONGO ISLANDS.
And for the South Seas made my way,
But got wreck'd in No Bottom Bay,
All on the Tongo Islands,
The King he made a chief of me,
His name was Koreekankikee—
And every night drank strong bohea;
Says he, ‘You shall be my son in-law,
And marry the Princess Washy Taw—’
Says I, ‘Your majesty, hold your jaw!
I will accept the Princess Paw—
With her tuzzy muzzy, hoki poki,
Hunky nunky, roki boki,
Pulka wulka, joki koki,
All in the Tongo Islands.
She wore a feather through her nose,
And had some rings upon her toes,
The pride of the Tongo Islands.
A mat she'd for a petticoat,
And a string of scalps wore round her throat,
For she'd kill'd fifty chiefs of note,
And did upon a battle doat—
Our wedding-feast description flogs,
'Twas in a palace built of logs—
We'd yam and blubber, and twelve bak'd hogs,
And, by way of a dainty, some roasted dogs—
With our tuzzy, &c.
And we lived in great harmony,
'Till the chiefs they jealous grew of me,
All in the Tongo Islands.
They swore they'd cut me up like pork,
And eat me without knife or fork—
Thinks I, why this is precious work,
And off my body I'd better walk,
So one fine morn, to show my wit,
Not being ready for the spit,
To cut and run I did think fit,
Thus, 'stead of biting, they were bit,
And their tuzzy, &c.
I'd lots of princes, chiefs, and priests,
All in the Tongo Islands.
There was the mighty Kangalore,
And Whangalore and Pinafore,
And Battledore and Bullyroar,
And Bandalore and forty more
The King, he drank three quarts of rum,
Which sowed him up—he was so dumb,
We thought he'd gone to kingdom come.
Which made the Queen look precious glum—
But after we had tweaked his nose,
He quickly jump'd upon his toes,
And floored us, just as we were foes,
All in the Tongo Islands.
Thank Heaven! on Old England's ground,
And never more will I be found,
All in the Tongo Islands.
For what's the use of being chief,
Where we can't mutton get, and beef,
Nor a can of grog to give relief,
When out of spirits and in grief.
Although the lawyers here we dread,
That cut us up alive, 'tis said—
Yet there they knock you on the head,
And swallow you after you are dead!
So, give me England, still, d'ye see—
In spite of taxes—for we're free;
The devil himself may go for me,
All in the Tongo Islands.
INNS FOR OUTS.
That each content may win;
For every out an inn.
They're reckoning ‘without their Host,’
Who slight the Vintner's aid,
For Hospitality's his toast,
And welcome is his trade.
To succour, licensed all,
And rich and poor alike resort,
Inviting great and small.
The King unto the Woolsack goes,
The Noble to the Crown,
The Gentry tipple 'neath the Rose,
The Plough attraets the Clown.
The Sexton to the Shovel—
The Parson seeks the Mitre's aid,
The Lawyer likes the Devil.
Our Herve's to the Duke's Head hie,
The Olive Branch each scorns;
The Ladies to the Feathers fly,
The Cit unto the Horns.
The Shepherd to the Lamb,
While Cobler's to the Sot's Hole run,
And Paviors' to the Ram,
Our Travellers to the World's End stalk
Our Topers to the Flaggon,
Good Women to the Phœnix walk,
And bad ones to the Dragon.
Tax-gatherers the Boar—
The hungry Bailiff seeks the Fleece,
Where the landlord's been before.
The Beadle on the Bear and Staff
Will never turn his back,
The Pedlar seeks the Pack.
Have trod, whate'er the scene—
Must own, with joy, they still have found
A welcome at an Inn.
There 'tis clear, beyond a doubt,
That all a home may win—
There is an Inn for every out—
For every out an Inn.
MURPHY HATH A WEATHER EYE!
A favourite Comic Meteorological Song, sung with tempestuous approbation by Mr. Hammond. Air—Norah Creina, or Lesbia hath a beaming eye.
He can tell, whene'er he pleases,
Whether 'twill be wet or dry,
When 'twill thaw, and when it freezes.
To the stars he has been up,
Higher than the Alps high summits,
Invited by the moon to sup
With her, the planets, and the comets.
Murphy hath, &c.
From which we every day can gather—
He has such a happy knack,
What will really be the weather.
He knows how to raise the wind,
Hold the rains, have hail at pleasure—
Get in the sun when he's a mind,
And blow a cloud whene'er he's leisure.
Murphy hath, &c.
Can light the sun, if he should fail, sirs—
At Venus nightly lick his lips,
And pull the Great Bear by the tail, sirs.
He the quicksilver knocks about,
Nor ever asks what there's to pay, sirs—
Don't let his mother know he's out,
But drinks tea in the Milky Way, sirs.
Murphy hath, &c.
Virgo long hath been his virgin:
With her he's Gemini, the Twins,
Old Capricorn his passion urging.
He with the Bull is quite at home—
The Fishes in the scales can carry—
Whene'er Aquarius reigns won't roam,
But with the Ram still plays Old Harry.
Murphy hath, &c.
Murphy is his undertaker,
And soon we may the loss deplore
Of every umbrella maker,
As all now know when 'twill be wet—
The doctors will look monstrous funny,
For very soon we shall not get
A cough or cold for love or money.
Murphy hath, &c.
He'll to a stand bring hackney coaches—
The jarvies will all bless his eyes,
And cads breathe nothing but reproaches.
No General Frost will put to flight
Great generals now, from Rome and Paris;
No army will set out to fight,
'Till Murphy hath declar'd it fair is.
Murphy hath, &c.
And, like a Lapland witch can sell it—
And, when by chance 'tis very cold,
He at his fingers end can tell it.
And though he sometimes is at fault,
Yet from this what can we gather?
If it don't rain when it ought,
'Tis not his fault, 'tis the weather.
Murphy hath, &c.
(His quicksilver by us provided;)
The sun our sole gasometer,
Will be if we're by Murphy guided,
No corns must now presume to shoot,
Nor cat its left ear dare wash over,
For what will their prognostics boot?
'Tis Murphy now must all discover.
Murphy hath, &c.
Which Member means of No Society;
For, living ou the air, he is
A Man of Natural Sobriety.
My meteorlogy to end,
May we long happy live together,
With Mr. Murphy for our friend,
To tell us all about the weather.
Murphy hath, &c.
PARISH POLITICS.
And plenty cheers the people,
And virtuous counsels from our isle,
Still far, thank Heaven, keep ill!
Or cares for foreign nations,
When every parish is as great.
And o'er Assessment, Tax, and Rate,
Still boasts as great orations.
Domestic jars, and foreign wars,
Are now grown rather rarish,
But ne'er will end their politics,
When gravely met the rates to fix,
The vestry of our parish.
Are now grown rather rarish,
But ne'er will end their politics,
When gravely met the rates to fix,
The vestry of our parish.
Or heeds the Congress clatter,
While parish vestries claim each thought,
They're German to the matter.
The House of Represenaatives
May send their friendly greetings,
So, too, may France's deputies—
But what are every one of these
Compared to parish meetings.
For chaff and prittle prattle,
And e'en the Lords would once excel
In noble tittle tattle.
But what, to parish orators,
Are these, but merely rabble?
From Greece and Rome they win the palm—
Demosthenes they all out-storm,
And Cicero out-gabble!
THE ROYAL VISIT;
OR, LONDON'S WELCOME TO QUEEN VICTORIA.
A Loyal Civic Medley, sung by Mr. Fitzwilliam, Mr. C. Taylor, &c. at the City Dinners. Air—Sure such a day.
Such a town as London town was surely never seen;
Such a noise of girls and boys, and such a merry populace,
For Gog and Magog loyally have entertain'd the Queen.
The Companies, to show their zeal, themselves form'd in monopolies—
All the nation's population were with joy obstropolis,
For search the earth, of all who've birth, Victoria, sure, worth treble is,
Oh, what a town, what a wonderful metropolis,
London town most loyally has entertain'd the Queen.
To grace the civic chair,
And dined with those most worthy men,
The Sheriffs and the Mayor.
The Mayor she made a baronet—
Thrice happy was his lot—
And both the Sheriffs, too, she knights,
They all are Sirs, Cod wot!
His bran new wig put on,
With coat and waistcoat gay,
To grace that happy day—
For such another reign
He ne'er may see again,
As the happy reign,
The reign of Queen Victoria!
Our Queen, bright Victoria, Great Britain's delight!
In public to dine with the city's new lord,
While loyalty, plenty, both garnish the board.
Elizabeth—Ann, too—with dainties great store,
And our Georges the bell from all monarchs that bore,
But they vow for Victoria they'd do ten times more,
For barring all pother, 'bout this, that, and t'other,
They were all entertained in their turn.
Four and-twenty maids of honour, all of a row—
With horsemen and footmen, drummers and mummers,
Trumpeters, beefeaters—nobility, mobility,
Little boys, full of noise—men and women, girls and piemen,
And all the houses and churches filled with people,
From the garrets and the steeple—jolly fellows—to the cellars—down below!
To see the Queen go to Guildhall, to eat, and to make merry.
Proudly smoked on the board—famed Sir Loin, too, was there,
Oh, the roast beef of Old England,
Oh, the Old English roast beef!
For the chins wagg'd all;
Such a noise, and such a din,
As they cut through thick and thin,
Ham and fowls, and soups and fish,
Lots of every dainty dish.
Cut me this, and cut me that,
Send me crust, and send me fat.
Tit bits—pulling, hauling—
Legs, wings, breast, head!
Some for liquor scolding, bawling—
Hock, Port, White, Red!
All was cramming, cutting, slashing,
Ducks and geese, and gravy splushing,
Till all was done.
Or in Claret, or Hock, or Champagne;
For not a soul there from the glad toast would shrink,
Though they ne'er drank a bumper again.
London drank to her glory, her hope, and her joy,
Wishing no woe or care might distress her,
But plenty and peace banish far each annoy,
They drank health to the Queen, God bless her!
Her, the queen of all good lasses,
To Victoria, in full glasses,
They the glorious toast sent round.
All good lasses, in a bumper,
Glad it passes, in a thumper—
Wishing all a life of pleasure,
Without mixture, without measure,
For in them true joy is found.
Long live our youthful Queen,
God save the Queen!
THE WONDERFUL SKITTLE-PLAYER!
In Amsterdam lived, and played skittles all day,
With Mynheer Rollempolem, the idlest of lubbers,
But those who at bowls play, will sometimes get rubbers.
Derry down, &c.
Knocked him straight on the head, in a rage, with a bowl.
For which, as none could again set up the sinner,
The Baron was ordered a chop for his dinner.
Derry down, &c.
Ere my head on the block, like a blockhead, I lay;
On the scaffold, at skittles a game let me win,
I shall die quite content—I shall not care a pin.
Derry down, &c.
When the Baron was brought out to play his last game.
On the scaffold the skittles and axe were both ready,
With a gallon of Hollands, just to keep his hand steady.
Derry down, &c.
'Twas settled a score was to be the amount:
I shall play for my life, stake my head 'gainst the block.’
Derry down, &c.
That the next dead man down might, alas! be himself—
When the holy friar, who was quite tired of staying,
Said, 'tis clear to be seen for his life he is playing.
Derry down, &c.
For he still kept exclaiming, ‘Another bowl more!’
Here whispered Jack Ketch, who stood close at their backs,
‘When next he stoops down make sharp work with your axe.’
Derry down, &c.
And the poor Baron soon had his head in his hand—
For, rising up quick, to see what had occurred,
He took his own head for the bowl, 'pou my word.
Derry down, &c.
At the skittles he threw it with wonderful force;
When all nine falling down, so correct was the aim,
The head holloa'd out, ‘Damme, I've won the game!’
Derry down, &c.
THE KENTUCKIAN!
'Mongst the Shakes, in the far West—
Where, when I cut my lucky,
All the bears they made a feast;
I'd hunted them to kill;
And none had ever winked again,
Had I not had my fill.
Raise the steam, and go a-head!
Toss off a sling for luck—
Put on the gas from the main pipe,
In praise of Old Kentuck.
To Commodore Paul Jones,
And he left me a large estate—
'Twas all in paving stone.
I'm a genooine Backwood man,
And when I'm out of prog,
To prove that I'm a good man,
I can eat a hickory log.
Raise the steam, &c.
Half a snapping turtle, too—
I can fairly beat all natur,
For there's nothing I can't do.
I am all made up of brimstone,
Except my ears and head;
And they are aquafortis,
On which I for pap was fed,
Raise the steam, &c.
But still go the entire hog;
I've the closest shooting ride,
And I sport the best coon dog.
I've got the biggest ticker,
And the toughest racking horse,
And I can kill more lickar,
And more varments, too, in course.
Raise the steam, &c.
And any man may have her;
For, like me, she's a rip staver.
I weigh my weight in wild cats,
Can a panther grin to death—
Hug a bear too close for comfort,
So I'll bark while I have breath.
Raise the steam, &c.
And can jump the Ohio;
In a tub can, in a jiffy,
Up the Niagara go
I ride on a streak of lightning,
And a thunderbolt can catch,
And in cooling off a foreigner,
I never had my match.
Raise the steam, &c.
A full major, and a judge;
And, moreover, a bear hunter,
Who was never known to judge,
By scores the scalping Ingins
To eternity I've hurled—
The yaller flower of the forest,
The beauty of the world.
Raise the steam, and go a-head,
And take a sling for luck:
The gas must from the main be laid,
In praise of Old Kentuck!
THE COMPOSER REHEARSING A SONG.
RECITATIVE.
'Tis done! completed is the score,Now, with the Band, I'll try it o'er.
When with the Band his song goes well?
Who picture a composer's pains,
When wretched fiddlers mar his strains?
Now ‘Mr. Leader—sir in C---
Andante time—take it from me.
[Beats time.]
Tutti—together—one strong chord—
[Chord.]
Bravo! delightful, on my word.
Now violino obligato—
[Violin solo.]
Non troppo presto, moderato!
Cantabile—this is the style.
[Imitation.]
There's a bar missing—rest awhile.
[Pause.]
Now, then, I'll try it with my voice—
I ne'er wrote anything so choice!
[A false chord in the orchestra.]
Zounds, what a bull—do mind your cue—
[Horns.]
There's five bars rest, there, Horns, for you.
Now, gentlemen, in common time,
For that best suits the Author's rhyme.
I must begin, or all 'twill mar,
Jnst as you close the second bar.
I'll count the time, you follow me—
Now—one, two, three, four—one, two, three!
SONG.
Oh, music, art enchanting,Sweet zest of every joy,
There's nought, if thou art wanting,
In life, but soon will cloy—
Without thy soft charm granting,
Our pleasures but annoy.
RECITATIVE.
Zounds, music's wanting here, that's clear—Oh, this would make an angel swear!
Trombone, you're a note too flat—
Fagotti—zounds, what are you at
Corni, the time completely mars—
All's wrong—try back the last eight bars!
SONG.
Oh, music, art enchanting—RECITATIVE.
I do not hear the basso's there!SONG.
[Continued.]Sweet zest of every joy!
RECITATIVE.
Zounds, piccolo! do take more careSONG.
[Continued.]There'a nought, if thou art wanting,
In life, but soon will cloy!
RECITATIVE.
Now, Coda—forte—drums, be ready—Fortissimo—Cymballo, steady!
Now—
CODA—SONG.
[Continued.]Music, its charms ne'er granting,
Our pleasures but annoy!
(Bis.)
RECITATIVE.
Bravo! Thanks, gentlemen—all's right!We'll get on famously at night.
THE DELIGHTS OF NEWGATE!
Ri tol li tol li tol diddle dol.
Those who rail against Newgate don't know half its joys,
Ri tol li tol li tol diddle dol!
Board, lodging, and washing for nothing we boast,
And servants provided at Government cost.
Ri tol, &c.
Ri tol, &c.
Ri tol, &c.
And three times a week, 'twould be rude to decline—
The Lord Mayor and Sheriffs invite us to dine.
Ri tol, &c.
Ri tol, &c.
We none of us, here, are in danger of fire,
Ri tol, &c.
Such care's taken of us, by Stone and his elves,
That no one insures, no not even themselves.
Ri tol, &c.
Ri tol, &c.
None of our companions we're sure will hang back—
Ri tol, &c.
And 'tis pleasure to think, that while here we may stop,
It has cellars can always supply us a drop.
Ri tol, &c.
Ri tol, &c.
All that's bad must, in Newgate, at last find an end,
Ri tol, &c.
And as to the ladies, 'tis just to their mind,
When to Newgate they come, they're all of them confined
Ri tol, &c.
Ri tol, &c.
Put us out of our pain, without fee, very quick,
Ri tol, &c.
And when forc'd to take leave, such our wish to remain,
We all work very hard till we get back again.
Ri tol, &c.
CHAPTER OF CLOAKS.
Young and old men and women, all wearing a cloak,
So, thinks I, I will e'en do as other folks do,
To be in the fashion I'll have a cloak, too.
Derry down, &c.
We all of us wear a cloak sometime or other;
For there's none but must own, in the midst of their pride,
They have something 'tis sometimes convenient to hide.
Derry down, &c.
And thinks a cigar 'tis the tippy to smoke;
Of his fine frill and broaches he makes a great show,
But take off his cloak, 'tis all dicky, you know.
Derry down, &c.
In the hood of her cloak often carries two faces;
Her Lover still swears she's an angel uncommon,
Till she throws off her cloak, when he finds she's a woman.
Derry down, &c.
And swears he but lives her commands to obey.
But once tightly noosed in the conjugal yoke,
'Tis, ‘Do this, and do that, ma am!’ for off goes the cloak.
Derry down, &c.
So many old suits he has always to cover;
His cloak once thrown off shews a great deal of evil,
For 'stead of the Lawyer, oh, dear! there's the Devil!
Derry down, &c.
To follow the fashion by no means is sloe—
When he once gets in Port, his superiors to ape,
He soon shews us his cloak has got plenty of Cape.
Derry down, &c.
And 'gainst places aed pensions most lustily swears—
But offer a little gold trimming and lace,
The cloak is thrown off, but we find there it's place!
Derry down, &c.
Call Cupid a monster, and rail against marriage—
Swear a single life's bliss, and of husbands make joke,
Till Mr. Wright seen is, when off goes the cloak.
Derry down, &c.
A wooden surtout, in which all faults he buries—
Long, long may he keep his cloak all to himself,
For 'tis one I'd for ever have laid on the shelf.
Derry down, &c.
He finds it so handy to hide a turned coat—
In short, we have all of us cloaks in our houses,
And wanting them, wives oft make cloaks of their spouses.
Derry down, &c.
I'll throw off my cloak—I must have none with you—
Believe me in zeal and obedience still fervent,
Your grateful devoted, and most humble servant.
Derry down, &c.
THE SEASON OF THE YEAR.
Sung by Mr. Rayner, and the late Mr. R. Sherwin, Mr. John Reeve, and others, at the different London Theatres. Air—Old Country Melody.
In vamous Zomerzetshire,
Lauks! I zerved my meester truly
For nearly zeven long year;
Until I took to powching,
Az you zhall quickly heer;
Oh, 'twas my delight, in a zhiny night,
In the zeazon o' the year.
Oh, twas my delight, &c.
I didn't valee that—
Although he groombled all the day,
Whatever I woor at,
Sae long as I could go into
The woods, amang the deer;
Oh, 'twas my delight, in a zhiny night,
In the zeazon o' the year.
Oh. 'twas my delight, &c.
To voork by candel light;
I look-ed up unto the moon,
And zhe zhone vera bright,
Zo I zhow'd un a vair pair of heels,
Without a bit of fear—
In the zeazon o' the year.
Oh, 'twas, &c.
And to the alehouse went,
And there a' met zome jolly boys,
On powching they were bent.
They zwore me wan amongst them then,
All vor a pot of beer—
Oh, 'twas my delight, in a zhiny night,
In the zeazon o' the year.
Oh, 'twas, &c.
And I zhort un a can zell,
And zometimes zend a haunch unto
A vriend in town az well;
A poozles all the joostices,
And makes the parzons zwear;
Oh, 'twas my delight, in a zhiny night,
In the zeazon o' the year.
Oh, 'twas, &c.
Were zetting on a snare,
Lauks! the geamkeepoors carm oop to us,
For them we did no care,
Case we could fight, and wrestle, lads,
Jump over ony where—
Oh, 'twas ma delight, on a zhiny night,
In the zeazon of the year.
Oh, 'twas, &c.
Were zetting vour or vive,
And toaking on 'em oop agean,
We cotch'd a heere alive;
We putten into the bag, ma boys,
And through the wood did steer,
Oh, 'twas ma delight, in a zhiny night,
In the zeazon of the year.
Oh, 'twas, &c.
An wandered off vor town:
And we zold un vor a crown;
We zold un vor a crown, ma boys,
But I did not tell ye where;
Oh, 'twas ma delight, in a zhiny night,
In the zeazon o' the year.
Oh, 'twas, &c.
For I does think it vair—
And here's look to ere a gentleman
Az wants to buy a heere.
Bad look to ere a game keepoor,
Az woona zell his deere.
Oh, 'twas ma delight, in a zhiny night,
In the zeazon o' the year.
Oh, 'twas ma delight, &c.
MORAL.
If you vould wish to hear,
It vas because a vound that beef
And mutton were zo dear.
While I gets geame and wenzon cheap—
Which iz a reazon clear.
Oh, 'twas ma deilght in a zhiny night,
In the zeazon o' the year.
Oh, 'twas, &c.
The Writer first heard the old part of this Song sung at a small road-side public-house, in the little village of Lillishul, Warwickshire, aud was so pleased with the humour and melody of it, that he was induced to add half a dozen new verses to it. This is the first time it has appeared in a complete state.
JEM CROW'S COURTSHIP.
Him lub you ever true;
And if dat you will marry him,
Why him will marry you!
And if that you will marry him,
Your fortune it shall be,
Wid sugar in your tea!
CHORUS.
Buckra missy, toute suite—ha, ha!Negro kissy, one, two—eomme ca!
All de tiresome arternoon,
How him climb up de gum tree.
And catchee sly racoon.
How him follow de Oppossom,
Pull him tail until him stare—
Like him werry clebber nigger,
While him massa whip de bear!
All upon de middle string—
Teach you all de arts and sciences,
Till you know ebbry ting.
Him dress you wid fine fedders,
And make you quite a show—
And ebbery one dat see you,
Say ‘Dere go Missee Crow!’
As him dance de Jonkanoo—
And you shall drink um one glass,
While him am drinking two.
Ebery morning first ting,
Why him will ‘Jump Jim Crow!’
And ebery night de last ting,
With you him parley vous.
To sit upon him knee,
As yellow as de guinea,
Where dem would princes be.
And be such great big beau,
Dat ebbery gal as see him pass,
Will jump at him Jim Crow!
TRIP TO BATH.
And summer comes in clover,
From the “George and Blue Boar” the folks start;
The men of wit and treasure,
Cits and wits, to take their pleasure,
All for Bath, in a hurry, depart.
Cramm'd, snugly, in their places,
The tits fast in their traces,
While coachee smirks, our favour to curry—
The wheels they loudly rattle,
The passengers they prattle,
And all is noise and hurry scurry, flurry!
To Bath, dear Bath, we hurry,
To keep soul and body alive.
Till it is twelve in the morning,
Their pleasure at length is complete;
Then the folks their pins are moving,
And the joys of Bath they're proving,
Messrs. Tag, Rag, and Bobtail they meet.
To the Pump Room then they're hasting,
The waters to be tasting,
Where everything is quickly set in motion—
Then in the hot bath dipping,
Steaming, stewing, scalding, dripping,
Men and women mix, and bathe in fond devotion.
The charms of music tasting,
Between each song we laugh and joke so funny;
And at two the Loo we're shuffling,
At the libraries we're raffling,
Where we lose, alike, our tempers and our money.
With an appetite for dinner,
That we mayn't grow any thinner,
To fish, and flesh, and fowl we're homewards prancing,
Till the gay assembly finding,
The day we up are winding,
With cakes, with cards, with negus, scan mag, dancing.
To Bath, dear Bath, we hurry,
To keep soul and body alive.
MEDLEY LIFE OF GIOVANNI.
Lur'd me to rove;
And my song of joy, from morn till night,
Was love, still love!
On all I smiled,
Each heart beguiled
With song, and dance, and play;
I never met a woman's scorn,
They ne'er said nay,
For in leap year 'twas I was born,
On Lady Day!
And soon fell in love very deep;
On my Spanish guitar play'd a ditty,
And lull'd the old guardians to sleep,
With hoo tira lira la, &c.
Her father was a commandant—her name was Donna Ann—
I saw and loved, the spirit moved,
I stole, at night, with flute and fiddle,
When out the commandant came,
With his long sword, saddle, bridle—
Whack went his truncheon,—
Faith, mine didn't long lay idle;
Whack down I knock'd him dead,
And then away I ran.
I for my life flew like the wind—
The constables they loudly bawl'd behind.
Tell us, ye jovial sailors, tell us true,
If Don Giovanni sails among your crew.
The boat on shore was cast—
I saved my life by wonder—
Some sailors' wives sail'd past.
One kiss'd me as I lay—
Her husband came that way,
Whom, with his gun
I kill'd, then run
From the Bay of Biscay, O!
Masetto, her boy, was nigh:
They married, but not for love,
So just in the nick popp'd I!
Oh, oh—fondly and warmly I sigh'd—
Oh, oh—you may judge yourself if she denied.
Circled round by beauties rare,
When strait some heavy steps I heard—
Leporello, see who's there.
Grim stalked in the commandant—
‘I've come—(said he)—repent, be wise,
And go with me.’ Said I, ‘I shan't!’
‘I'll take you, then, said he, Don, by surprise’
In watching and pursuing
The light that lies,
In woman's eyes,
And that 'twas proved my ruin.
I scorned the heaven they taught me—
My only bliss
Was woman's kiss,
That to the devil brought me!
Pity my fall,
You young women all,
Well-a-day! well-a-day!
BOOKS AND BIPEDS!
We 're each a volume in it;
Some good, some bad, some hard to be made out,
Some few well read.
Kind Heaven the Author is of all,
Which none can doubt a minute,
When we are born we're published,
And we're out of print when dead.
And a Parson is a prayer book,
A Lawyer's a black letter book,
Producing lots of pelf;
A Cuckold is a horn book,
An honest man is a rare book—
Actors, books in parts,
And old Maids, works upon the shelf.
Scolds are full of matter—
Young maids are books in nonpareil,
And Scriveners, in vellum—
Rogues, books fraught with errata,
And Patriots very good books,
You so soon can buy and sell 'em.
And Giants, books in folio—
Drunkards books in quarto,
Which wet from the Press appear—
Our Veterans books with cuts,
While an Author is an olio,
And Mistresses are almanacs,
That changed are every year!
Lying lumbering about—
Widows, volumes second hand,
That sometimes go off best.
Doctors, books in the dead languages,
That oft a drug turn out—
Our Courtiers they are spelling books,
While Spendthrifts are hot pressed.
A Bishop is a bible—
Surgeons are Reviewers,
Cutting up ten where they save one;
A good man is a sermon,
A Liar is a libel—
A merry man 's a jest book,
And a Sexton is a grave one.
And Kings in royal crown—
Placemen work in post—
And Cooks in pot ne'er bettered:
Lords are books in capitals,
That still command the town—
Our wealthy men all gilt are,
While our learned men are lettered.
Fops volumes are in calf—
Mechanics books in boards, that we
Pick up in stalls and streets;
Our married men are whole bound,
Our single men but half—
Spinsters they all stitched are—
While a bride's a work in sheets.
And cash books, worth much money.
Arithmeticians, works in numbers
Many folks take in.
Wives are childrens books, and children,
Nursery books—'tis funny—
While Judges, they are statute books—
Great antidotes to sin.
And flirts are every day books—
Antiquarians old books,
And coxcombs most absurd books—
Schoolmasters are grammar books,
And idle folks are play books—
Hypocrites are hymn books,
And scolding wives are word books.
If rightly understood—
Human nature but a Library,
As has before been said,
And Heaven's the Author of us all—
In all there is some good—
When we are born we're published,
And we're out of print when dead!
CUPID'S COOKERY BOOK.
Sung with universal applause by Mr. G. Ford and Mr. J. W. Sharp. Music, by Auber, sold by Duncombe and Moon, 17, High Holborn
A receipt take from “Cupid's Own Cookery Book.”
If a match you would make, you will find this the plan—
Catch a young gent and lady, as fresh as you can.
Let the young gent be raw and soft, though the male gender,
And take care the young lady is equally tender.
To dinner the gentleman set down to table,
And pour as much wine in as ever you're able—
And, whilst he is soaking—attend, pray, to this—
Every now and then pop in a word about Miss,
But do it with care, or the match you may spoil,
And you'll find he'll be very soon ready to boil.
See, poor fellow, he's into the drawing-room led—
Set him down by the lady, though shy he may be,
And sop them both equally well with green tea—
Lead them to the piano—the handiest of things—
And blow up the flame till the young lady sings—
But the first sigh you hear the young gentleman puff,
Take them off, for they then will be both warm enough.
Put them then by themselves—they'll not think you presume—
In the most retired corner there is in the room,
Or else on a sofa, tete a tete, the pair leave,
And there let them simmer the rest of the eve.
Taking care that the parties are placed side by side,
And you'll find this a truth is—deny it you can't—
They'll be ready for marriage whenever you want.
As 'tis known they are very apt then to turn sour.
The honeymoon o'er, and departed the zest,
Howe'er well and tasty they both may be dress'd.
Attend to these hints, and a match you may make,
Whene'er to dish one up the pains you may take.
A receipt for which vain you'll in Mrs. Glass look,
As it's copied from “Cupid's Own Cookery Book.”
THE DEVIL'S TOUR!
O'er Europe's sunny plains I passed—
To Spain's romantic land I came,
And a sadness seized my Demon frame,
For I saw, beneath the olive shade,
A vision fair of a dark eyed maid,
Who sang with a joy that seem'd proof 'gainst woe,
To her lover's guitar, the Bolero so!
No more my heart shall languish,
Love, Hope, and Joy are mine!
When I saw—and it fill'd my heart with glee—
The Fiends of the Inquisition near:
They came like night and things of fear.
They tortured the maid—gave the youth to the flame,
And it all was done in Religion's name.
Oh ho! quoth I, there's no want of me—
My trade's going on right merrily!
I went to visit my friend, the Pope.
Echoed the music of their souls.
No breeze but bore a healing balm—
The azure skies beam'd joy and calm,
When I heard, amidst the linden trees,
The mountain song of the Tyrolese.
We sport and play, from sorrow free.
Oh, then we'll sing wild songs,
While echo still the strain prolongs,
Till night its dusky veil,
Sheds o'er hill and dale!
I saw the assassin's stiletto gleam!
I saw this sunny and joyous land,
The abode of the dark and fierce Brigand!
I saw the Austrian Eagle stoop,
And a harvest seize at one fell swoop!
So I hurried away, and shriek'd with glee—
‘My trade's going on in Italy!”
Sweet scene of melody and dance.
I saw the despot's iron hand
Stretch'd forth, to crush his native land—
And I saw—it made my bosom glow—
The blood of her sons, like water flow—
Till I heard, amidst her maidens' cries,
The indignant hymn of freedom rise.
See what myriads bid you rise!
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary—
Behold their tears, and hear their cries!
Bore the patriot sound to the Thuilleries
A monarch flee from a people's power!
Says I 'tis a lesson for Demons and Kings,
So I took the hint, and order'd my wings—
For well I know where there's Liberty,
That never can be the place for me!
THE GOOD OLD ENGLISH GENTLEWOMAN.
Of the Good Old English Gentleman that lov'd the olden time—
And since old subjects please so well, it sure can't be a crime
With the good old English Lady's worth to make a pleasant chime.
The good old English Gentlewoman
Of the olden time!
The good old tenants, as they pass'd, all bless'd her comely looks—
She learnt to write the good old way, with hangers and pot hooks,
And though no wondrous scholar, yet she was the best of cooks!
Was the good Old English Gentlewoman
Of the olden time!
And got by heart the good old way of making puddings—pies!
Old salves and plaisters for old hurts, which made her quite a prize!
The good Old Englishwoman
Of the olden time!
Work'd samplers—play'd the harpsichord—could sing, too, when inclined—
Danc'd Minuets—although she own'd that much more to her mind
Were the good old Country Dances, when a hundred couples join'd!
The good Old English Gentlewoman
Of the olden time!
The good old customs she kept up of courting and of marriage—
The caudle and the christening—which let no one disparage—
With one-and-twenty children, too—for she liv'd to a rare age—
The good old English Gentlewoman
Of the olden time!
But made her will, and calmly died, and 'tis with pleasure told,
'Mongst many a good old charity she freely shared her gold,
And left her good old name to be encreased a hundred fold—
The good Old English Gentlewoman
Of thè olden time!
ALL WHEN THE LEAVES WERE GREEN.
My mother's hope, my father's pride—nought could my rest destroy—
The neighbours all admired—I was the pride of every scene,
At wake, or fair, or harvest home, all when the leaves were green!
The pretty girls all flock'd around—with love my soul was fired.
I chose out one from all the rest, she was my bosom's queen—
I kiss'd and woo'd her, day and night, all when the leaves were green!
I hunted, betted, sported, gam'd—but time was on the wing
I took my glass, I kiss'd my lass, sought joy from morn till e'en,
Nor ever dreamt I should grow old, all when the leaves were green!
My friends have fled, my Love is dead, and I am left forlorn.
I pass each day in grief away, nought variegates the scene,
Except to think upon the time all when the leaves were green!
Don't think it will for ever last, nor let the world beguile—
Beware of want, look out for woe—ingratitude bites keen—
Remember Winter time will come, although the leaves be green!
KISSES!
The Celebrated Chanson D'Amour, originally sung by Madame Vestris in ‘Giovanni in London’ at Drury Lane Theatre, &c. Now First Printed entire. Air—Chanson D'Amour.
Half afraid, half afraid—
I gave her kisses one, half afraid—
I gave her kisses one,
She frown'd and cried ‘Have done!’
But ‘go on!’ her pretty blue eyes plainly said
Bolder grown, bolder grown—
I gave her kisses two, bolder grown.
I gave her kisses two,
She lisp'd, ‘Be quiet, do!
Will you never learn to leave a maid alone?’
Wondrous sly, woundrous sly—
I gave her kisses three, wondrous sly—
I gave her kisses three,
When she return'd them me,
And I read a world of love within her eye.
As you'll guess, as you'll guess—
I gave her kisses four, as you'll guess,
I gave her kisses four,
She look'd like wishing more—
And depend upon it I wish'd nothing less
Can you blame, can you blame?
I gave her kisses five, can you blame?
I gave her kisses five—
'Tis as true as I'm alive—
You in my place had surely done the same,
Going on, going on—
I gave her kisses six, going on—
I gave her kisses six,
She sigh'd, ‘Are these your tricks?
I fear you are a wicked creature, Don!’
Quick as thought, quick as thought—
I gave her kisses seven, quick as thought—
I gave her kisses seven,
She murmur'd, ‘I'm in Heaven!’
Said I, ‘My Love, so every Angel ought!’
In a breath, in a breath,
I gave her kisses eight, in a breath—
I gave her kisses eight,
Quoth she, ‘I yield to fate!
I'm yours, my dear Giovanni, yours till death!’
Who but me, who but me—
I gave her kisses nine, who but me?
Her lips were so divine,
They honey, manna, nectar, seem'd to be!
With much zest, with great zest—
I gave her kisses ten, with much zest.
I gave her kisses ten,
She call'd me ‘best of men!’
But there surely is no need to tell the rest!
LIFE AND OPINIONS OF JIM ALONG JOSE.
But de gem of all de Nigger Jims is de more fam'd Jim along José.
Dey may twist about, and turn about, and jump dere fine Jem Crow,
But dere's no one will look at dem when dey once see de Jim along Joe!
Hey Jem along, Jim along a Josè—
Hey Jim along, Jim along a Joe!
My massa many dollars gib to get me from de Guinea—
So clebber as de Poet, I worth more dan lub or money,
And at dancing eberybody own I beat de Taglioni!
Hey Jim along, &c.
To learn what are de 'pinions ob de cute Jim along José—
For so well him on all subjects make de speech dat ebery one
Swear him must be de Prime Minister, or de Country is undone!
Hey Jim along, &c.
For him famous Politician, quite as well as black de shoes—
When him talk 'bout Foreign Polly-tics, him make de people stare,
While de Home Affairs him settles when him gets on tick de pot ob beer!
Hey Jim along, &c.
De Queen she hab de littel pickaninny ebery year!
And gib de Royal Christening ob de littel son or daughter,
Where de Crowned Heads dey hab de wine, and de babbies hab de water!
Hey Jim along, &c.
Him Citizen King could not him dinner hab wid him King ob de City.
Dey make bery many speeches, and dey many fine tings utter,
But dough fine words be all bery fine, dey don't de parsnips butter!
Hey Jim along, &c.
Victoria oped de new one, as Queen Bess she did its moder!
Dey say Exchange no Robbery is, which him tinks bery strange,
Ven ve knows so many robberies dere is on de Exchange.
Hey Jim along, &c.
De English fleet de green tea make look bery, bery black!
De Emperor twenty millions hab been much obliged to gib,
Nor call dem de Barbarian more long as eber him sall lib!
Hey Jim along, &c.
To tink dem get de Gunpowder, in spite of Tang and Lin—
So pleas'd dey were, dere temperance, want ob tea would not destroy,
Immediately dem hear de news, dem all get drunk wid joy!
Hey Jim along, &c.
Dat she might one dead hero hab, as she'd not one alive.
Prince Joinville he hab take French leave, as all his country do—
Him tink himself one deep Marine—but him bery soon look blue.
Hey Jim along, &c.
Dere's our Nap-ier here, for dere Nap dere, and one dat's alive and kicking—
And should dem once within de Captain Warner's long range come,
Him five miles off would blow dem up wid him exploding bomb!
Hey Jim along, &c.
Nebber mind, you come and see him de next time you pass dis vay,
Den you shall hear what you shall hear, for him now feel rather dozy,
And you'll cry ‘Damn'd cleber nigger dat is Master Jim along José.
Hey Jim along, &c.
THE MAIDEN'S DECLARATION.
A NATIONAL OCCASIONAL BALLAD.
Sung by Mrs. Keeley, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, Miss Vincent, &c. with unbounded applause. Vide Royal Declaration to the Privy Council, 1839. Arranged by the Author to a Favourite Air of Millico.
Hymen's in fashion—he's coming to Court—
Soon you will think that too long you have tarried,
Is it not leap year? At nothing stop short.
Crown then your wishes—stay not for majority—
Pop the question at once, if you feel Cupid's dart:
Be ‘loving Subjects’—you've Royal Authority!
Own the empire of passion and reign in the heart!
Maidens, maidens &c.
Make Privy Counsellors—tell them your mind—
Do as your Queen's done—whatever their stations,
Boldly declare you're for wedlock inclin'd!
Whatever dull Parties say to the contrary,
Make the youth of your fancy the Prince of your choice—
To wed's Constitutional—maids, then, don't tarry,
Uphold your just rights, 'twill the nation rejoice.
Maidens, maidens, &c.
Evince opposition—your wishes condemn—
That, as bound, you have duly considered the matter,
And think 'twill be best both for you and for them.
That you've no doubt at all, if the fates are propitious,
Your own private happiness it will secure—
Your domestic enjoyments make doubly delicious,
And be very grateful to them, you are sure!
Maidens, maidens, &c.
That none may say they've taken been by surprise—
And doubt not, like our Queen, whom we prize so sincerely,
That to all ‘loving subjects’ 'twill seem very wise.
Do this girls, at once—to young Cupid sing “Gloria!”
And make up your minds to ‘Obey, Honour, Love!’
Every maiden will then be as blest as Victoria,
While each chosen youth a Prince Albert will prove.
Maidens, maidens, &c.
MR. AND MRS. RAILTON.
A COMIC CONJUGAL DUET,
Mr. R.Why, Molly! Mrs. Railton! Where the devil are you all?
Pray are you deaf or dead, that thus you let me call and bawl?
I've broke the bell! One might as well, live in a desert, or a common,
And spend one's life without a wife, as live with such a shocking woman!
Zounds! I can't bear it! If there's not a reformation,
I'll the house turn out of doors, or 'faith I'll leave the nation!
Mrs. R.
Well, Mr. Railton, here I am! What's all this noise about?
Do you think I've wings, that I can fly the moment you call out?
I'm quite a slave—I'm sure the grave were better than to lead this life, sir!
Such calling, tearing, bawling, swearing—I curse the hour I was a wife, sir!
All you can wish for, is brought you, without asking for it,
Yet, all my thanks is, abuse, neglect and worrit!
Mr. R.
'Tis false! I use you. Ma'am, too well—but we'll this moment part!
I wish in church, I'd in the lurch left you, with all my heart.
The roast and boil'd are always spoil'd—I never get a decent dinner—
Mr. R.
Zounds—But I won't swear. You'd better let your tongue lay idle!
Mrs. R.
Sir, you're a great bear! You'd best your temper bridle!
Mrs. R.
In spite of all your slander I most cause have for complaint.
Mr. R.
You've not!
Mrs. R.
I have!
Mr. R.
'Tis false!
Mrs. R.
'Tis true!
Mr. R.
It is!
Mrs. R.
No, sir, it ain't!
Mr. R.
Have you forgot—I hope you've not—in church you promis'd to obey, Ma'am?
Mrs. R.
Obey! Absurd! I skipp'd the word—
Mr. R.
You'll find you won't get off that way, Ma'am!
No, to a summons, from Doctors' Commons, you'll knock under.
I'll enforce, Ma'am—a divorce, ma'am—
Mrs. R.
Indeed! I shouldn't wonder!
Mrs. R.
You wicked man, is this your plan? Abusing 'stead of soothing?
You rake at nights, you slight my rights, get tipsy, and do nothing!
There's Brown and Moore, and half a score, you think your Friends—that never come, sir,
But 'tis to feast at your expense, and drink you out of house and home, sir!
But Mr. R., sir—once for all I give you warning,
I'll no longer sit up—till three, sir, in the morning!
And haven't you your cronies, too—which one that's blind can see.
Must come for something else than merely for a dish of tea!
There's Mrs. Bowles, blows up the coals, and Mrs. Jones, who deals in scandal—
And Mrs. Knagg, whose curs'd red rag, still serves the Devil for a handle—
And as to drinking, ma'am, please just give me leave to hint, ma'am,
Some folks don't dislike, in sly, a drop of peppermint, ma'am!
Mrs. R.
A letter came the other day—ungrateful man, you know it—
From one no better than she should be, for you dared not show it!
But I'll find out what 'twas about, and tear her eyes out to distress you.
Mr. R.
Will you be quiet? Zounds, this riot! Curse me, but I've a mind to dress you!
Mrs. R.
Hum! what, you'd strike me?
Mr. R.
If I thrash'd you, I assure ye,
‘Sarve you right!’ would quickly be the verdict of the Jury!
Mr. R
Then if you come to letters, Ma'am—you have your peccadilloes—
And if I romp it with the girls, you flirt it with the fellows!
And from your winks to Mr. Jinke, last Sunday, I am very certain,
That something wrong might chance, ere long to happen, ma'am, behind the curtain.
But I'll act timely. I'll send you, madam to your mother!
Mrs. R.
Then, sir, you'll have to talk with Captain Biggs, my brother!
You cruel brute! you see my tears—you play upon my love—
I'll have a separate maintenance, and where I like I'll rove.
Mr. R.
Hum! Tears? Don't cry. Perhaps, Ma'am, I said something more than I intended
I did but jest, so let it rest—you know least said is soonest mended?
Mrs. R.
Jest?
Mr. R.
Yes!
Mrs. R.
Oh, Mr. R.!
Mr. R.
Oh, Mrs. R.! Enchantress!
Mrs. R.
Rover!
Mr. R.
My life!
Mrs. R.
My love!
Mr. R.
My duck!
Mrs. R.
My dove!
Mr. R.
One kiss—
[He kisses her.]
Both.
There—now all's over!
MUNDEN'S CHAPTER OF BENEFITS.
Sights, pockets, and other like everyday things—
But of Chapters there's none half so proper, that's clear,
As to read o'er my Chapter of Benefits, here.
Derry down, &c.
Up to town with ‘The Farmer,’ brisk lemmy, I jump'd—
Where still I've remain'd your Crack man to the last.
Derry down, &c.
Nor felt in the high ‘Road to Ruin’ perplex'd.
As Old Dornton, the Banker, I urg'd Nature's cause,
And drew immense Drafts on the public applause,
Derry down, &c.
But as Harmony often I made anger halt—
I have met with my ‘Rivals,’ but, say what they will,
In Sir Anthony, faith, I was Absolute still I
Derry down, &c.
I gave public favour a Gripe in Sir Francis—
And in serving the public, I truly can say,
I a great Busy body have proved to this day.
Derry down, &c.
As from project to project I merrily rov'd—
I invented a new plan to pleasure the town,
And reap'd a rich harvest of wealth and renown!
Derry down, &c.
And cured many sad hearts, I trust of their woes—
As Old Rapid, the Tailor, I made a new suit
For the Public—and gain'd cash and custom to boot.
Derry down, &c.
As Old Dozey I proved I awake was to please—
Yes, night after night to my post I was true,
Till at last in Sam Dabbs you found out ‘Who was Who?’
Derry down, &c.
There's one that will stick to me still to the last—
It is, as I hope, many here fully know,
Your obliged, your devoted, your constant friend, Joe.
Derry down, &c.
LEAP YEAR!
OR, THE LADIES' PRIVILEGE.
For etiquette now you no longer need stop:
All you who have swains that are bashful and shy,
May court, if you please—nay, the question may pop!
Through life may the badge of supremacy wear!
A few tears, a few sighs, and you'll anything do.
In spite of themselves bestow bliss on each swain—
You have but to flatter—they'll soon buckle to.
Through life will the badge of supremacy wear!
But vow you are dying, they'll find you new life,
Nay, e'en should you venture on stealing a kiss,
'Twill but the more surely of maids make a wife!
THE ROYAL MARRIAGE.
A LOYAL COMIC EPITHALAMIC MEDLEY,
Sung by Mr. Fitzwilliam at the Grand Civic Banquet given at the Town Hall, Windsor, in honour of the Nuptials of Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria with H. R. H. Prince Albert of Saxe Coburg Gotha, on Monday, February 10th, 1840.
Such a day, so bless'd and gay, was surely never seen.
To hail with hand and heart the marriage of our Queen!
Long may we meet in bright commemoration
Of that most happy union, that high solemnization,
Of all our brightest, fondest hopes the joyous consummation—
Then let us in the genial glass drink our congratulation!
Hail, happy day, &c.
For who would the bliss of the lovers delay?
They forgot all their sorrows, their cares and their labours,
And bade ev'ry heart beat with rapture that day.
May they revel in pleasures that never can cloy—
Be their's royal felicity—
May they love and happiness ever enjoy!
Did Foreign Ambassadors come—
Our own Nobles, too, were not idle,
But hasten'd to grace every room.
Lords in Waiting, Bridemaids, Maids of Honour—
Bishops, Judges in solemn array,
All went to invoke blessings on her,
And see their Queen given away.
There never was sure such a Bridal—
Dukes, Ministers, Statesmen were there—
All parties acknowledg'd one idol,
And call'd blessings down on the pair.
Woo'd and married and all:
The happiest they of all mortals,
When woo'd and married and all!
So justly form'd to meet by Nature,
As loved Victoria, England's Queen,
Excelling still in form and feature.
And Albert, chosen of her heart—
The first in ev'ry manly duty—
Thus may true love still crown desert,
And Princely worth still cherish beauty.
And we as merry are as they, and merrily we'll sing—
May Cupid ring the changes with Hymen's Treble Royal
Bob Majors, as he ranges for now to love is loyal.
He but a Prince by rank and worth,
She deem'd a plain gold ring from him
Well purchased with a diadem.
She rightly chose—a nation's prayer—
Then bless, kind fate, our throne still save
With daughters as Victoria fair,
And sons, as Albert true and brave.
Yes, those whom Concord sweet has join'd—
To grace and bless a Royal line,
And gently lull each thought unkind.
Each blessing may they ever find,
And nought with them love's charm destroy.
You who've single tarried—
Your Queen a fair example sets,
So hasten and get married!
And married folks, you're not forbid
To follow her example—
Love but your wives as first you did,
And you'll have pleasures ample.
Yes, young and old, for once be bold—
You'll not in vain endeavour—
Or great, or small, get married all,
'Tis better late than never!
And Albert! shout, wake plain and green—
Ne'er were pair more noble seen,
Long live the Queen!
Fenc'd round by patriot hearts,
No danger need they dread—
Fell faction backward starts,
And hides abash'd its head!
All hail, our loved Victoria
And Albert, hail! Their glory,
Their names shall shine for ever,
Renown'd in regal story!
Hail, Albert and Victoria!
Our cherish'd Prince and Queen!
All hail, our Prince!
All hail, our Queen!
All hail, our Prince!
All hail, our Queen!
All hail our Prince and Queen!
THE JOCKEY.
A Celebrated Sporting Song, sung by the late Mr. Mathews in his Entertainment with rapturous applause. Air—Epsom Races, or Waltz in ‘La Dame Blanche.’
There's no one like the Jockey—up to everything that's going.
His sire, the Coachman—Cook, his dam—he owns no Groom for brother—
Earth had been two-fold bless'd, indeed, had it foaled such another.
Just fifteen hands upon his feet, and next grass twenty rising—
So tight and clean—sound wind and limb—the Ladies' hearts surprising.
Two to one, till the heat is run, and the race is lost and won!
Then while I live the odds I'll give, there's pleasure still in sporting.
Who'll win or lose a toss up is. A hundred years pass'd over
'Twill all the same be with the game—then let us live in clover.
So up and down, so wing and fly, so knowing and so clever,
Let me a jockey live and die—a jockey's life for ever!
Two to one the heat is run—the race is lost and won.
THE JOLLY GOOD FELLOW.
SONG AND CHORUS.
SOLO.
A health to the lov'd and the true—
Our playmate in boyhood, in manhood our pride,
The health that is justly his due.
He is good, he is merry and wise—
He is brave, he is honest and true—
He is honour'd for Honour, in every one's eyes—
Here's his health—it is justly his due.
CHORUS.
For he's a hearty good fellow—
For he's a thorough good fellow—
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah
And so say all of us—
And so say all of us!
For he's a jolly good fellow—
For he's a hearty good fellow—
For he's a thorough good fellow—
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
All his heart's fondest hopes realiz'd—
Circle round one so lov'd, and so priz'd.
He is good, he is merry and wise,
He is brave, he is honest, and true,
He is honour'd for Honour, in every one's eyes.
Then his health, boys, 'tis justly his due!
For he's a jolly, &c.
No heeltaps, but bumpers—drink high!
Now, boys, are all charg'd? You will take it from me—
With full honours this toast we'll drain dry.
Here's a health to the merry and wise—
Here's a health to the honest and true—
Here's a health to the friend that we've tried, that we've priz'd—
The health that is justly his due.
CHORUS.
For he's a hearty good fellow—
For he's a thorough good fellow!
Hip hip hip hurrah!
Hip hip hip hurrah!
Hip hip hip hurrah!
For he's a jolly good fellow—
For he's a hearty good fellow—
For he's a thorough good fellow?
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
THE CRUEL COURTSHIP.
Oh, cruel has Love been to me, and broke my tender heart
I never made a hit but once, and that turn'd out a miss!
For when I ask'd her for her hand, she handed me her foot.
Perhaps 'twas right to hide her love, and blush at all my prayers—
But what the devil good was there in kicking me down stairs?
And cruelly she snared me, in her cruel auburn locks.
I took the shears and cut a curl, but stared like any pig,
When she cried, “You cruel puppy! curse you, you have spoil'd my wig!”
But at the cruel door was forced to leave me in the lurch—
By six cruel children, ready made, who claim'd her pots and pans,
And a cruel Irish husband, who bawl'd, “I forbid the banns!”
If veiled, to spare her blushes, I would let her wedded be:
But when the marriage was performed, with a cruel lot of bother,
Unveil'd, and shewed me I had wed her cruel old grandmother!
And cruel was the Parson, that made her mine for life
And I wish the ropes were round their necks that rung the cruel Bells.
THE COUNTY COURT,
OR, COBBLERS' CHANCERY.
Sung by the late Mr. W. H. Williams, Mr. Buckingham, &c. at the Theatres, Concerts, and other Places of Public Amusement, with universal applause. Air—Go to the Devil and shake yourself.
For so swiftly and surely they practice law's game'
That though Madame Justice is blind, 'tis confess'd,
Yet no one with justice can say she is lame.
There they've causes that no effects often produce—
Though they often effects get without any cause—
And laws without conscience—but that has its use—
For sometimes they've conscience without any laws.
And like I should to hug her—
But find me a rhyme for Porringer,
And I'll give you, for an Orange, her.
For so swiftly and surely they practise Law's game,
That though Madam Justice is blind 'tis confest,
Yet no one with justice can say she is lame.
The Cobbler his Chancery finds them to boot—
The Plaintiff, Defendant, all keep up the ball,
They the Bookseller bind, while the Tailor they suit.
There you may be Witness, and Counsel yourself—
You may plead if you please, and your cause is soon tried:
While all parties laugh o'er their matters of pelf,
The losers excepted—who laugh the wrong side.
And Kittywhack, pray hold your clack!
Your debt is one pound ten, my lad,
To which twelve shillings costs we add—
Give it us, you'll find it best—
The County Court makes this request.
But Justice, my Lord—
In vain of Justice here you talk,
Give us the money, sir, and walk!
Hum! this is a very ticklish case,
And would puzzle a Judge in another place.
Well, I shall give you a verdict in verse,
Which I shall make very terse.
Stand forward, Mrs. Mc.Ginnis, and pay attention to the Court.
She made a shift to spoil your sheet, ne'er doubt it
So you must make a shift to do without it—
A light supper, too, she got you, as you said,
So she must pay you nothing, and you'll be lightly paid!
Clear the Court!
THE FAST MAN!
And the Fast Steam Arm of the Soldier bold—
But a story I will now unfold
Of a faster than either these heroes old!
With a tooral looral, &c.
That both these worthies he surpass'd—
But he'd fifty-tramp power to the last!
With a tooral looral, &c.
Left him, 'tis said, ten thousand clear—
Which, without staying to shed a tear,
He got through in a single year!
With his tooral looral, &c.
With a lady gay, his bliss to crown—
The Bank of Englond he could have knock'd down,
For fastness he had such renown!
With a tooral looral, &c.
He always order'd twelve suits of clothes—
Though he didn't with Snip stop, you'll suppose,
But order'd as many hats, boots, and hose!
With a tooral looral, &c.
Any quantity given from bottle or wood—
When it wasn't his own—but that's understood—
So a four bottle man he was still held good!
With a tooral looral, &c.
When I say he outran the Constable—
For running in debt he was own'd to excel—
He head over ears still ran so well!
With a tooral looral, &c.
But his ‘steam up’ Jack run at the top of his speed—
And having no check rein, was sure to succeed,
For Anti Attrition was never his creed.
With a tooral looral, &c.
When on business or pleasure we wish to take wing,
The Man Locomotive don't suit, Poets sing,
The Coal burnt, and low water mark, at the spring!
With a tooral looral, &c.
From Monday, when the week began—
For the Artful Dodge was still Jack's plan—
And they swore they ne'er follow'd so fast a man!
With a tooral looral, &c.
Long ere he had reach'd twenty-one!
Yet he lived forty years did this son of a gun—
For he turn'd nights to days. Now my song it is done.
With a tooral, looral, &c.
MORAL.
But lest at my muse you should stand aghast,A Moral I'll draw that must not be past.
Highflyers beware, if you'd wish to last,
And take care that you do not live quite so Fast!
With a tooral looral, &c.
BALLAD SINGERS' MEDLEY DUETS
Sung by the late Mr. & Mrs. Vale with unbounded applause at the Surrey Theatre in the Author's Drama, ‘The Progress of a Lawsuit.’
1. [PART THE FIRST.]
Male Ballad Singer.Oh, Nanny wilt thou gang wi' me?
Female Ballad Singer.
Over the mountain, and over the moor.
Male.
When the hollow drum has beat to bed,
When the little fifer nods his head—
Meet me by moonlight alone,
Dear youth, and I'll tell you a tale—
Male.
Of a traveller stopp'd at a widow's gate,
She kept an inn, and he wanted to bait—
Female.
Quite politely, quite politely—
Walk in, kind sir, said she—
Male.
For England expects that every man
This day will do his duty—
This day will—
Female.
Drink, drink, and kiss the lasses!
Drink, drink, and kiss—
Male.
A maid call'd Betty Wade—
Female.
Oh no, we never mention her,
Her name is never heard:
My lips are now—
Male.
Cherry ripe, cherry ripe—ripe, I cry
Full and fair ones, come—
Female.
Home! home! Home, sweet home!
Male.
I've been roaming—I've been roaming
Where the honey dews are sweet—
And I'm coming—and I'm coming
With—
Female.
Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling—
Charlie is—
Male.
A brisk and sprightly lad,
And just come home from—
Female.
The Lass of Richmond Hill!
The Lass of Richmond Hill!
Male.
I'd crowns resign, to call her—
Female.
Charming Judy Callaghan!
Male.
Only say, you'll be Mrs. Brallaghan!
Female.
Don't say nay—
Male.
Charming Judy Callaghan!
Female.
For a lass is good—
Male.
And a glass is good,
And a pipe to smoke in cold weather!
Ambo.
The world is good, and the people are good,
And we're all good fellows together!
We're all good fellows together!
2. PART THE SECOND.
Female.Return, O my Love, and we'll never never part—
Male.
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale!
Why my lads, dinna ye march on in order?
Female.
March, march, Barnsley and Liddesdale,
All the blue bonnets are—
Male.
Hokee Pokee, Wank a Fum,
The King of the Cannibal Islands!
Female.
Come arouse thee—arouse thee,
My merry Swiss boy—
Come arouse, and to labour away!
Male.
Come arouse thee—arouse thee,
My merry Swiss boy,
And—
Female.
Strike, strike, strike the light, the light guitar!
Strike, strike—
Male.
A queer little man, very how came you so?
Who set out on a dark stormy night.
Female.
It was past twelve o'clock—he'd a long way to go
To—
Male.
Sweet Katty O'Lynch
Lived at Bally na Hinch,
And her sweetheart was—
Female.
Once a little boy—
Heigho! heigho!
Then with him 'twas sweet to—
Male.
Haste to Kelvin Grove,
Bonnie lassie, O!
Let us haste—
Female.
Where the aspens quiver,
Down by the flowing river,
And bring—
Female.
Oysters, sir! oysters, sir! oysters, sir, I cry,
Come buy my native oysters. O! For—
It is our opening day!
Female.
It is our opening day!
It is—
Male.
Past twelve o'clock, and a starlight morning,
Past twelve o'clock!
So—
Female.
Rise, gentle moon, and light me to my lover!
Gentle moon! gentle moon!
Male.
For we're a' noddin',
Nid nid noddin'—so—
Female.
Wake, dearest, wake, and together united
We'll wander to yonder grove.
Male.
For it's good to be merry and wise—
It's good to be honest and true—
It's good to—
Ambo
Away with melancholy,
Nor doleful changes ring
On life and human folly—
But merrily, merrily sing
Fal la?
3. PART THE THIRD.
Male.Now we're all here met together,
In spite of wind and weather,
To moisten well our clay.
Before we think of jogging—
Female.
With lowly suit, and plaintive ditty,
I call the tender mind to pity,
Here's tales of love, of maids forsaken,
Of battles fought and—
Male.
Our brave Commander's story!
With ardent zeal his youthful heart
Swell'd high for—
Female.
Sweet Kitty of the Clyde!
Sweet Kitty, sweet Kitty of—
Male.
Wapping Old Stairs!
No tighter lass is going,
From Irongate to Limehonse Hole,
You'll never meet—
A man that never lov'd,
Nor felt soft woman's sigh—
Is there a man can mark unmov'd—
Male.
A bumper of good liquor,
Will end a contest quicker
Than Justice, Squire, or Vicar,
So let the glass go round!
Female.
All round my hat,
I wear a green willow!
Male.
All round my hat,
Around! around! around!
Female.
In the dead of the night,
When with labour opprest,
All mortals enjoy
The sweet blessings of rest—
A boy tapp'd at my—
Male.
Little foolish fluttering thing—
Little foolish fluttering—
Female.
Jim Crow!
Every time I turn about I jump—
Male.
Within a mile of Edinboro' town,
In the rosy time of the year:
Sweet lavrocks bloom'd, and the grass was down,
And each laddie kiss'd his dear—
Female.
A long time ago!
When we went out a gipseying—
Male.
In the clover,
When the bloom was on the rye.
Ri tol folderol de rido!
Ri tol folderol de rido!
Ri tol folderol de rido!
Ri tol folderol de ra!
Ambo.
For we won't go home till the morning—
We won't go home till the morning—
We won't go home till the morning,
Till daylight has appeared!
Hip hip hip hip, hurrah!
Hip hip hip hip, hurrah!
For we are jolly good fellows—
For we are jolly good fellows—
Hip hip hip hip, hurrah!
A CHRISTMAS NIGHT!
A CONVIVIAL SONG,
Sung by Several Distinguished Amateurs at all the Fashionable Parties, &c. in the Season of the Year. Air—Poacher's Song.
For still good fare will banish care, make sorrow disappear—
And dearer is this merry time, the more 'tis bleak and drear—
Oh, a Christmas night, it is my delight, in the season of the year.
What turkeys fall, that one and all may revel plenteously!
Then higher, higher heap the fire—till the logs burn bright and clear—
For a Christmas night, it is my delight, in the season of the year.
And let goodwill and peace to all upon its surface swim—
And drink a merry Christmas, and as happy a New Year,
For a Christmas night, it is my delight, in the season of the year.
And let the social Lamb's Wool pass, with catch, and song, and tale,
Till close unto the ribs it clings, the weary heart to cheer—
Oh, a Christmas night, it is my delight in the season of the year!
And we've Snap Dragon—ever found a very mystic game.
The fiery ordeal we must pass to win the sweet and dear—
Oh, a Christmas night it is my delight, in the season of the year!
And the shining Laurel that still comes to crown Old Christmas' head—
For he's a mighty conqueror, he conquers all that's drear—
Oh, a Christmas night, it is my delight, in the season of the year!
While the laughing girls stand by and cry ‘Come, kiss me, if you dare!’
For they can struggle, scream, and scratch, while kiss'd they're being there—
Oh, a Christmas night, it is my delight, in the season of the year!
By the merry Waits, awaking too, the echoes of delight.
Oh, a Christmas night, it is my delight, in the season of the year!
For though we may have some to pay, we've others to receive.
Then let us think but of receipts, which still the bosom cheer—
Oh, a Christmas night, it is my delight, in the season of the year!
Success attend that jolly heart that still will make good cheer—
But ill betide that churlish wight, that thinks a thing too dear—
For a Christmas night, it is my delight, in the season of the year!
WE WON'T GO HOME TILL THE MORNING.
A COMIC SONG.
In the orient sky is dawning,
We won't go home till the morning,
Until it is break of day.
We'll banish care and sorrow,
And business till to-morrow—
We'll sing old songs and snatches,
Blithe glees and merry catches
And hear the chimes at midnight,
So cheerily, cheerily play!
CHORUS.
We won't go home till the morningIn the orient sky is dawning—
We won't go home till the morning,
Until it is break of day!
And toast our fav'rite lasses,
Nor care how quick time passes,
Nor how long he may stay!
We've lost the lov'd, the near—
We've seen depart the dear—
Yet age has not so chill'd us,
Nor with indiff'rence fill'd us,
But we'll hear the chimes at midnight,
For once, come what, come may!
THE ROYAL LORD MAYOR'S DAY
OR, THE CITY'S WELCOME TO THE PRINCE OF WALES.
There were Four-and-twenty Lord Mayors, all of a row—Four-and-twenty Lord Mayors, all of a row!
CHAUNT.
There were the Lord Mayors past, from the first to the last—The Lord Mayor present, looking uncommonly pleasant, and the Lord Mayors to come, nearly filling the room—the Sheriffs and the Livery, sworn enemies to knavery—the Remembrancer and Mace with the Chaplain to say Grace—Common Sergeant and Recorder, all ranged in proper order—when, making glad the scene, the news came that the
For it made the day a Royal day,
Therefore they would be merry!
Four-and-twenty Cabinet Ministers, all of a row!
CHAUNT.
All rushing hurry scurry, in a terrible great hurry— with the Officers of State, that they mighn't be too late, for they knew she wouldn't wait—the Premier full of zeal—Lord Chancellor, Privy Sal—His Grace of Canterbury, in duty ever ready—the Bishop too, of London, that nothing migh, be undone—the Lord High Chamberlain, with his wand and chain —the Commander of the Forces, the Grand Master of the Horses—and, not a little puzzled, the Lord Steward of the Household—when the Birth of the Royal Boy, spread universal joy—
Down below!
For it was on my Lord Mayor's Day—
No wonder they were merry!
Four-and-twenty Welchmen, all of a row!
CHAUNT.
There was Ap Shenken, and Ap Jenken—Ap Rice, and Ap Price—Ap Wynn and Ap Gwynn—Ap Lloyd and Ap Floyd—from Carnarvon to Llangollen—to Carmarthen and Hellvellyn—all capering like goats, and spluttering their throats—to think a Prince of Wales, was born again to crown their vales—and all was fun and jollity, throughout the
Down below!
As their Prince was born upon his day,
Therefore they would be merry!
Four-and-twenty Princes of Wales, all of a row!
CHAUNT.
There was Edward of Carnarvon, who proved himself a brave one—and the glorious Black Prince, who made the Frenchmen wince—at Cressy and Poictiers, despite their swords and spears—Harry Monmouth, our Fifth Harry, who would for no one tarry, —but for England nobly fought, and won at Agineourt —Bluff Hal, who had six wives, and loved them all thair lives! Our Second Charles the morry so fond of drinking Sherry—to George the Fourth and last, but they all will be surpassed, by our Young Prince, bless his heart! his namesake's counterpart, who's come, we well may say, to make every dwelling gay.
Down below!
And who was born on Lord Mayor's Day,
Therefore will we be merry!
Four-and-twenty Loyal Subjects all of a row!
CHAUNT.
There's Johnny Bull, and Dolly Bull, and Sawny Bull, and Paddy Bull, all assembled fully bent, to hail the blessed event, so joyful to the Nation, with loyal salutation, and drink with three times three,
Down below!
Now the Lord Mayor's Day's a Royal day,
So let us all be merry!
A BATCH OF BALLADS.
Sung by the late Mr. W. J. Hammond, at the New Strand Theatre in the Drama of ‘The Ballad Singer’ Air—Girl I left behind me.
So well that, blessings on her!
My mother said I very soon
Should be a Prima Donna!
I run the Gamut through and through,
Nor e'er a pitchfork wanted—
So ev'ry song I've chanted.
Then buy my ballads—buy, come buy—
Here's twenty for a penny!
My voice to please you I will try—
Come buy of Singing Jenny!
In ‘The Bay of Biscay,’
‘O Nannie wilt thou gang with me?’
‘Nor sigh for love and whiskey!’
‘I'm Jolly Dick, the Lamplighter!’
‘The sun that lights the roses.’
‘The Humours of a Country Fair,’
Along with ‘The Vicar and Moses.’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
‘Peas upon a trencher!’
‘The Flag that braved a rhousand years!’
‘The Spaniards and the French, sir!’
‘Old King Cole was a merry old soul’—
‘Beneath a weeping willow’—
‘I love the lad with a carrotty poll,’
‘He's such a charming fellow!’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
‘My heart with love is breaking’—
‘When bidden to the wake or fair,’
‘I am in such a taking.’
‘Pray Goody, please to moderate,’
‘The Lad with the shilala!’
‘I am o'er young to marry yet’—
Unfortunate Miss Bailey!’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
‘Come listen to my story!’
‘They died for Love and Glory!’
‘Away, away to the mountain's brow,’
‘Ye lovers of the Angle’—
‘Let's dance and sing, and Jump Jim Crow
‘Has your mother sold her mangle?’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
‘Such a beauty I did grow, sir!’
‘Murphy hath a weather eye,’
‘When the stormy winds do blow, sir!’
Now to conclude, nor wrath provoke,
For I to please endeavour—
Here's ‘Rule Britannia!’ ‘Hearts of Oak l’
And ‘Our Native Land for ever!’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
FIRST ENCORE.
On roasted larks they fed me
So I still snore, in proper key,
And sneeze as Sol Fa's bid me.
I for my meat, by way of treat,
A nightingale or two seek—
So you'll suppose, can't blow my nose
But it is perfect music.
Then buy my ballads, &c.
‘Rail on, ye learned asses!’
Here's ‘Bessy Bell and Mary Gray’—
‘A health to all good lasses!’
‘I gaze upon thy form unmoved,’
‘On stormy ocean tossing’—
‘Is there a heart that never loved’
‘The man wot sweeps a crossing!’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
‘The Lakes of sweet Killarney’—
‘List to the maxims of the wise’
Among ‘The Groves of Blarney.’
‘Moll in the Wad and I fell out’—
'Twas in the morning early’—
‘Young Lobski’—‘Mr. Peter Snout’—
‘I loved thee ever dearly!’
Then buy my ballads. &c.
‘Do you ever think of me, love?’
‘Oh no, we never mention her’—
‘Under the walnut tree, love!’
‘We met’—‘Deep in a forest dell,’
‘Walker, the Twopenny Postman!
‘Sweet Joe, from all he bears the belle’—
‘The Literary Dustman!’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
‘Come where the aspens quiver!’
‘O do not mingle’—‘Bob and Joan!’
‘She loves, and lovos for ever!’
‘When a little farm we keep’—
‘Moll Dodds’—‘Lord Ullin's Daughter’—
‘My baby boy, lie still and sleep’
‘On the banks of Allan Water!’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
‘I'm Figaro, the Barber!’
The cove that sports a four-and-nine—
‘Come and take tea in the arbour!’
‘Who'll buy a heart? Who'll buy a heart?’
I hear the people cry out.
Of all the girls that are so smart’—
‘There you go with your eye out!’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
SECOND ENCORE.
‘How happy could I be with either?’
‘Since first this humble roof I knew,’
‘We've lived and loved together!’
‘Sich a gettin up stairs’—‘Lady Fair’—
‘Flora she loved Damon’—
‘Child of Earth with the golden hair’—
‘Barclay and Perkins's Draymen.’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
‘Away with melancholy’!
‘Ben Block’—‘Tom Bowling’, and ‘Poor Jack’—
‘Come, let us all be jolly!’
‘Ah, who would wed for sordid pelf?’—
‘Sweet Mary’—‘Rosy Anna.’
‘Go to the Devil, snd skake yourself’
‘Upon the Banks of Banna!’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
‘Charley over the water!’
‘Tom Starboard was a lover true’—
‘Good Lord, what are you arter?’
‘A frog he would a wooing go’
‘Sweet Poll,’ and ‘Drops of Brandy!’
‘A little old woman, how came you so?’
‘With your galloping randy dandy!’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
‘That's the time of day, sir!’
I couldn't think of such a thing,’
‘In the merry month of May,’ sir.
‘Come buy poor Sally's wooden ware’—
‘She wore a wreath of roses’—
‘Fuddle all your noses!’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
‘Merrily danced the Quaker!’
‘Oh, fly not yet!’ ‘We'll never yield!’
‘My charming Betsy Baker!’
‘The soldier tired of war's alarms’—
‘Push about the can,’ sir!
‘He was famed for deeds of arms,’
‘The Dandy Dog's—meat Man,’ sir!
Then buy my ballads, &c,
‘I cannot marry Krout, sir’—
‘Young Ben he was a nice young man’—
‘Does your mother know you're out,’ sir?
‘The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,—
‘Weep not!’ ‘The Soldier's Tear,’ sir—
‘For ninepence, Mr. Fergusson,
You really can't lodge here, sir!’
Then buy my ballads, &c.
AMERICAN ANALIZATION!
OR, ENGLISH CHANGE FOR AMERICAN NOTES.
Sung by the late Mr. W. H. Williams with unbounded applause at Sadler's Wells Theatre, &c. Air—Analization.
An over grown nation,
Black and White population,
Down East, and Far West,
And getting the best—
And go a-head Railroads, sixty miles in an hour,
And such is America made of!
What is the Congress made of?
Of the President's Chair,
And a Message each year,
Of votes and shin plasters,
And all of them masters—
Of Washington's glories a great deal to say,
General Jackson, Old Hickory, and five dollars a day,
Such is the Congress made of!
Of Multiplication,
And close calculation—
I reckon, I guess,
And take nothing less.
A New England that 'gainst our Old England can't stand—
Uncle Sam, Cousin Jonathan, and Gin Slings at command.
Spoken.—Oh, yes! Not forgetting Mint Juleps!
And such are the Yankees made of!
Half horse, half alligator,
And no beat in Natur?
Raccons and Oppossums,
Bears very far West,
And rifles the longest,
If they're not the best!
A touch of the Earthquake, the Great Sea Snake's glories,
And Old Colonel Crockett's tarnation long stories!
And such are Kentuckians made of!
Of cruel sweet smiles,
To cheer Jonathan's toils,
And grace to the Nines,
One half apple sarse, t'other half pure molasses,
The New World 'twould stump to find more real jam lasses—
And such are the Yankee Girls made of!
Of clocks made for show,
But not made to go—
Spoken.—Except in the way of trade!
Wooden nutmegs and hams,
Soft sawder and bams,
Of Polyglot Bibles, that no one can read,
Tin Reflectors, and notions, which nobody need,
And such are the Pedlars made of!
Of Teetotalism,
Cold water and schism—
Adam's Ale and Bohea,
Cant and fiddle de dee!
Of windy insides, till they can't longer bear it—
Lantern jaws, herring ribs, and great want of the spirit—
And such are the Temperance Men made of!
Piccaninni's from Guinea,
Carolina, Virginny—
Coal Black Rose so nice,
And Rumbo and Rice—
Of wery good massas, grimaces, and bows,
‘Sich a gettin up stairs,’ and jumping ‘Jem Crow!’
And such are the Niggers made of!
Of truth, said in joke,
But in good nature spoke—
With no wish to offend.
Hoping nought but the ocean may ever divide
Columbia and England—two worlds, Hope and Pride!
And such, friends, is what I am made of!
THE SPECIAL CONSTABLE.
That have so nobly saved the land,
And our glorious Constitution,
From horrid Revolution,
From Cochranites and Chartists—
What a theme for future Artists!
When the ragamuffins wanted to be bounceable
Each a hero!
Mob at Zero!
Greece and Rome!
Beat at home!
Hey down, ho down, derry derry down,
Whou wouldn't be a Special Constable?
Oh Lord, who wouldn't be a Special Constable!
Entrusted to one's hand,
Authoris'd to break a head,
With that instrument of dread,
And from all assistance claim
In Her Majesty's own name,
Officially I take up all who're trounceable,
Peace, I say—
Clear the way—
Guard the Crown—
Knock you down!
Hey down, ho down, derry derry down,
Oh, Lord, who wouldn't be a Special Constable?
Oh, Lord! who wouldn't be a Special Constable!
Would in vain have kept the peace,
If they hadn't had the aid,
Of us truly great unpaid,
The Nation's greatest power,
As we showed in danger's hour,
With authority that was quite unpronounceable.
Demonstration—
Glorious station—
Saving all,
From a fall!
Hey down, ho down, derry derry down,
What a fine thing 'tis to be a Special Constable!
What a fine thing 'tis to be a Special Constable!
The facts forming the subject of this Song actually occurred at the time in a small town in Scotland.
HEAVY WET, MUTTON CHOPS, AND CHERRY BOUNCE!
The popular Three Part Parody on ‘Cherry Ripe,’ sung by Mr. J. Reeve at the Adelphi Theatre. &c.
HEAVY WET.
Pints and quart pots, when I'm dry—
If so be you ask me where
They are best, I answer, there—
Where we most can run in debt—
That's the place for heavy wet!
Meux's, Whitbread's, nought care I—
To the Blue Posts let us go,
There we'll clouds of backy blow—
And, while we our cares forget,
Every day quaff heavy wet.
MUTTON CHOPS.
Fat or lean ones, both I'll buy—
If so be you'd have my coin,
You must cut them off the loin!
When the cook for nothing stops,
That's the time for mutton chops.
I as hungry am as dry—
Let me have them nice and hot,
With a murphy and shalot!
Heaven bless the butchers' shops—
All the year they've mutton chops.
CHERRY BOUNCE.
Fill a full glass on the sly—
To the wine vaults we'll repair—
When we heavy wet renounce.
That's the time for cherry bounce.
When my flame is standing nigh—
When with love I'm quite beguil'd,
And I wish to draw it mild,
Then, each vulgar fear to trounce,
Then I call for cherry bounce.
L'AMORE INFELICITA!
A MOCK ITALIAN CANTATA.
RECITATIVE.
Felicita! my tender heart's first love!—Primo amor (Cupido!) del cor mio—
Chanced on a gentle river's banks to rove—
Sento oh Dio! Sul margine d'un rio!
Entranced we met, ah me! in sweet duetto,
His heart fidele, with love was amoroso—
While mine, oh, dolce! lulled by Zephyretto,
Andante time was all affettuoso.
CANZONETTE.
In piazetta
And gondoletta,
Flowed from his tongue!
And Signiorini,
And great Rossini
As thus he sung.
ARIA.
Oh, Pescator del' onda,How sweet with you to wander,
Allegretto through the grove.
Biondina in gondoletta,
Sure nothing can be better—
Cara sposa! Oh, my love!
RECITATIVE.
In pantomime my hand his heart then blesses,While melo-dramatically he his flame expresses.
[Pantomime.]
BOLERO.
Then, fastly as we can go,We dance the blithe fandango—
While sounds the gay guitar,
Con spirito—comme ca!
Castanet Dance.]
ADAGIO.
Till, ah! a sad terzetto,A rival comes pomposo,
To breathe the sospiretto,
And move me penseroso—
My love no more in petto,
I then grow furioso,
Kickini—mal—upsetto,
I make him solo go so
BRAVURA
Barbare! non troppo presto!Lasciar me sol fa—
Why blight our joy thus, questa
Hence, infelicita!
CHAPTER OF FISHING.
Sung by Mr. Fltzwilliam, Mr. C. Taylor, and Mr. Howell, at Public Dinners, &c. Air—We're a' nodding.
They're all fishing, every one you meet.
Many folks about fishing have of late made a pother,
But we're all of us fishing for something or other—
All's flesh fishified, and my faith is unshaken,
That each man has his bait, which some time will be taken.
They're all fishing, &c,
He still baits us with bread, to secure the loaves and fishes—
The Patriot a Smelt is, still fishing for place,
Who'll change like a Dolphin, if one stares him in the face,
For they're all fishing, &c.
He fishes for glory, still trusting to Fate—
Dancing Masters are Trout fish, who fish to catch eels,
And Counsellors all are still fishing for the seals.
For they're all fishing, &c.
The Critics, when fishing, inclined are to Carp—
The Lawyer with Gudgeons himself still consoles,
And our Pastors, good Christians, are fishing for souls.
And they're all fishing, &c.
Their bait a fine May fly—they themselves oft entangle—
For they sometimes preve Thornbacks in church when we're book'd!
And they're all fishing, &c
The Dandy's a Flat fish, who still seeks to strike—
The Sailor's a Jack, who spurns fresh water fish,
And who on the ocean can every one dish.
And they're all fishing &c.
He baits with a Sprat still a Herring to get—
The Sharper's a slippery fish—he is a Skate—
While the Clown is a Tickleback, a mere straw his bait.
And we're all fishing, &c.
Who, though sometimes he flounders, as oftentimes shines—
I, an odd fish, am fishing, and not without cause—
Do I wish for good sport—I fish for your applause!
And we're all fishing, &c.
THE MEMORY OF SHAKESPEARE.
A CONVIVIAL SONG,
Sung by the Author at the Surrey Beef Steak Club, on Shakespeare's Birthday, April the 23rd, 1832. Air—Gee ho Dobbin.
Once more, friends, St. George ushers in the blest day—
The day of all days, when our Shakespeare was born
To astonish, improve, to delight, and adorn!
All hail, Shakespeare! All hail! all hail!
Magician, awaking our hopes and our fears—
Since, for us, he has fill'd up such full draughts of pleasure,
Pledge his Memory in bumpers—yield ‘Measure for Measure.’
All hail, &c.
To his Memory? No—for he never can die!
He's with us—we are all by his Spirit engrost—
Then to Shakespeare fill up! 'Twon't be ‘Love's Labour's Lost.’
All hail, &c.
But all, by right, still represent him that can!
May our wise Legislators but doom those their terrors,
Of his Plays who'd a ‘Comedy set forth ‘of Errors.’
All hail, &c.
Spelled our senses, and charm'd, at his will, our belief—
Could with all sorts of ranks, at all seasons prevail,
For he still for ‘Twelfth Nighi’ had a sweet ‘Winter's Tale.’
All hail, &c.
He to Beatrice, Juliet, Ophelia gave birth—
For our sweethearts, a model, as fancy may strike it,
I no one shall point out—choose, friends, ‘As you like it.’
All hail, &c.
With ‘Verona's Two Gentlemen oft we have quaff'd—
And found the dull hours o'er the grape's ruby stream,
Pass as sweetly as does a ‘Midsummer Night's Dream.’
All hail, &c.
Of the Will of all Wills of our Warwickshire Will!
For though feeble my efforts may prove, it is soothing
That none can say there's ‘Much ado about nothing.’
All hail, &c.
Willy Shakespeare the great, litrle Willy Moncrieff.
The highest, and lowest—we can't all excel—
So I'll finish my Song, for ‘All's well that ends well.’
All hail, Shakespeare! Matchless Shakespeare!
Glorious Shakespeare! All hail! all hail!
BALANCING ACCOUNTS!
OR, GOOD AND BAD. A COMIC DUET.
Tommy Turnstile and Janus Jumble.Tommy.
What, my friend, Janus Jumble? Eh? where have you tarried
This long time? How are you, and what are your views!
Janus.
In health, I'm so so. For my views, I've got married!
Tommy.
Got married! I wish you joy! that is good news!
Janus.
Nay, not so good, Tommy, for I caught a Tartar—
That's bad news!
Janus.
Nay, not so bad. But, I'll explain.
She fair was in person—no damsel dress'd smarter—
And then she'd a fortune—
Tommy.
That's good news, again!
Janus.
Not so good—for I purchas'd some sheep with her money,
That died of the rot, one day, all in a heap.
Tommy.
That was bad!
Janus.
Not so bad—for I, somehow, 'tis funny—
Got more for their skins than I gave for the sheep.
Tommy
That was good!
Janus.
No, it weren't—for I laid out my cash
In the Stocks and the Funds, by which greatly I lost!
Tommy.
That was bad!
Janus.
No, it weren't—for I then made a dash
At some houses, and bought them for less than prime cost!
Tommy.
That was good!
Janus.
No, it weren't, for my houses took fire,
And were burnt to the ground—'tis a sad tale to tell!
Tommy
That was bad!
Janus.
Not so bad—it was just my desire,
For my termagant wife wss burnt in them as well!
Then let's be contented, and laugh at life's troubles—
Joy still repays woe, Pleasure still follows pain—
Endless bliss, Ceaseless woe, are, believe me, mere bubbles:
There's no bad without good, there's no loss without gain!
MANKIND, DOGS!
Sung by the late Mr. Vale with great applause at Covent Garden Theatre, City Dinners. &c. Now first Correctly Printed. Air—March in ‘Blue Beard.’
Has, if you'll the Ancients seek,
Of Transmigrations most Dogmatic,
Told in Categoric Greek—
That Quadrupeds once Bipeds were,
Canis, Equus, or Ursa—
Two legs that had, though not a pair,
But I shall prove 'tis Vice Versa.
Pointer, Lurcher, Mastiff, Spaniel,
Each finds, as through life he jogs—
The World's no more than one wide Kennel—
Mankind, different sorts of Dogs.
That a shot delight to hear—
Sailors, Mastiffs that ne'er yield, are
Whom the foeman well may fear.
Pets are Lap Dogs for the Ladies,
Comb'd and trimm'd, they Beauty court,
Beaux, are Poodles, that on gay days,
Brutuses delight to sport!
Pointer, Lurcher, &c.
Snarling, biting for their prey—
Topers, Dogs that love to guzzle,
Though they're Water Dogs, they say!
What's the Bailiff but a Setter?
What are Spendthrifts but their game?
Brag's a good Dog, but a better
Is Holdfast, and that's their name!
Pointer, Lurcher, &c.
That the Country overrun—
Ministers of State are Terriers,
In catching Rats excell'd by none!
The noisiest Dogs throughout the Nation,
Until they a place obtain,
Are Patriots—but in situation
Placed, they never bark again
Pointer, Lurcher, &c.
Though they fawn, the more they're spurn'd,
Husbands, House Dogs, that want chaining—
Wives, are Turn spits, easy turn'd!
Critics, good Dogs are for Vermin,
Scribblers killing soon as found—
Coxcombs, Pups whose tongues want worming,
Pups that very much abound!
Pointer, Lurcher, &c.
But Sheep Dogs, as we're told,
That should keep their flocks from straying—
Guide them to their proper fold.
Surgeons are a sort of Blood Hounds,
To run down all ill intent—
Grey hounds, they are very good hounds,
As was prov'd in Parliament!
Pointer, Lurcher, &c.
Taking great care of the Area.
What's Informers? Mongrels, Catch Dogs,
Dogs that vilely fetch and carry
Honest Men are Newfoundland Dogs,
Valuable Dogs, indeed!
Where'er found, they're our right hand Dogs,
Would we could increase the breed!
Pointer, Lurcher, &c.
Sometimes prove, to teaze delighting,
Growling over the Poor Rates,
And at Beggars, snarling, biting!
Whigs are Fox Hounds, keen of scent,
Whipp'd in by the Treasury hacks—
To run Reynard down intent—
Gamesters, Dogs that go in Packs
Pointer, Lurcher, &c.
Dogs that I would not disparage
Of Running Couples—Catalogues
They give tongue, to us of Marriage!
Tax Gatherers, Wolf Dogs once were,
Hunting mankind night and day—
And some Female Dogs there are,
Are sad—what I will not say!
Pointer, Lurcher, &c.
Dogs in mangers—senseless elves!
Who would keep us from the glories
Which they can't enjoy themselves?
What are Dandies? Let them grieve—
Pugs Dogs, Shock Dogs, every one—
While those, who'd their friends deceive,
Mad Dogs are that all should shun!
Pointer, Lurcher, &c.
Evermore to sport and play—
We English, Bull Dogs, that love fighting.
That still die ere we give way!
A faithful Dog, to friends, I vow, sir,
Am I—nor Lurcher, that has fail'd—
But I'd best make my bow, wow, wow, sir,
Ere, by your anger, I'm curtail'd!
Pointer, Lurcher, Mastiff, Spaniel—
Each finds, as through life he jogs,
The World's no more but one wide kennel—
Mankind, different sorts of Dogs
ASCOT RACES.
So gaily drest, in Sunday best, bang up for Ascot Races—
Yet ere I go, I think I'll shew, we're but the fashion gracing,
For high and low, and belle and beau, and all the world are racing.
Some race the right road, some the wrong some crooked, and some level—
The Parson races to the sky, the Lawyer to the Devil.
While young men they race after them, and often madly dash on!
The Buck runs after curricles, low waists, and high shirt collars—
The Tailor races after him, and soon the Bailiff follows.
While other men race after fame, but all race after money!
And Death, and Mr. Sexton, always follow on his traces—
The British Soldiers rrce the foe, who always run before them—
And Singers often run away for Audience to encore 'em!
Then to the Races now I'll race—zounds, I've no brains about me!
For, while that I've been singing here, they have rac'd off without me!
THE CHELSEA STEAMERS!
OR. A TRIP TO CREMORNE.
A new Comic Medley Patter Song, written expressly for Cremorne Gardens, and sung by Mr. Glindon with great applause. Air—Who's for Calais.
From London the fare is but Threepence a nob.
The sun it is glowing, the breezes are blowing—
Such a treat who would slight can be only a Snob.
Hark, the steam it is singing, the starting bell's ringing—
With Amusements so many, we must not be late—
Then quickly let's steer to the Grand Cremorne Pier,
Where Momus laughs over the New Water Gate.
Cremorne, to thy Gardens we'll hasten!
They may ‘Rosin the Bow’ relaxation that grudge
The string we'll, more wisely, unfasten!
Cremorne can boast of good ale and wine!
Cremorne can boast of good brandy!
Cremorne can boast lots of pretty girls,
As sweet as sugar candy!
In the Steamers by water, &c.
For Battersea Bridge or Cremorne that may ply—
Your sweetheart take gallantly, wife or your daughter, man,
Winning each heart, and delighting each eye.
There things they do so tastefully—
There the Polka dance so gracefully—
All the world and his wife we are sure to meet there—
Then who to Cremorne would not gladly repair?
OH, LORD, MASSA!
OR, LILLY SNOWBALL'S LAMENTATION.
Pardon! No be so severe
But Cowskin him hit berry hard.
Though him all de Rumbo drink,
When ole Massa little tiuk—
Though him on de Banjo play
'Stead of work, the oder day—
Walk Jawbone, and Jump Jim Crow—
Let poor Lilly Snowball go.
Don't kill a Nigger, pray—
Let him lib anoder day—
Oh, lord, Massa! Oh, lord, Massa!
Hold him hand—poor Snowball hear—
No lay on so berry fine,
Wid black butter no make shine—
Though him dance de oder night,
When him moon shine berry bright,
Wid de girls on de Plantation—
Yellow roses of creation—
Jump, and dance, and hug, and kissee—
Spare him, for de lub of Missee!
Him back is berry sore—
No stand him any more!
Oh, lord, Massa! Oh, lord, Massa!
BLOOMSBURY GENTILITY
OR, THE TOWN GALA.
Sung by Mr. Sloman, the late Mr. Stebbing, and other distinguished Public Singers Tune—Drops of Brandy.
John Lump has discours'd like a parrot—
But 'twixt you and I, that great lout
Didn't know a sheep's head from a carrot!
When wi' town ones compar'd—'tis na hum, sirs—
But I'll tell you of one which I saw
When gentleman to Sir John Plum, sirs!
Rumpti iddity iddity, &c.
The Rout as I speaks of wur given,
Which topp'd all I'd see'd upon Stage,
And 'fegs! I thought I was in Heaven,
The floors wur all chalk'd wi' fine figures—
The walls were all fester'd wi' flowers, sirs—
And on tables were jellies—od sniggers!
All mouldered like castles and towers, sirs!
Rumpti iddity iddity, &c.
And without the least morsel o' raillery,
The crowd that assembled mought fright,
The crowd of a Threepenny Gallery.
Such pushing, such shoving, such thrustlng,
Such squeezing good places to get, sirs—
Old Trullebub cried he was bursting!
What, thinks I 'fore he's set down to eat, sirs!
Rumpti iddity iddiry, &c.
Which Miss Dora Plum said wur glorious—
And when that I axed her as how,
Said she, ‘Lout, 'twill make us notorious.’
The Police, to keep order, remain'd,
As the swell mob they said, that they knew, sir—
But as not one that came wur detain'd,
It show'd as they know'd who was who, sirs.
Rumpti iddity iddity, &c.
The Fiddlers to hold—it be fact, sirs—
Which fell down on Alderman Pie,
Who call'd out ‘My head it be crack'd sirs.
Miss Conk lost her aquiline nose, sirs—
While Lady Bloom's cheeks—a good joke—
Turn'd to whitey brown 'stead of the rose, sirs.
Rumpti iddity iddity, &c.
'Bout some pudden had like to've drawn daggers, sirs—
While I tumbled whack over the scuttle,
And threw some young ladies in staggers, sirs.
Salts wur call'd for, and vinegar, too,
So I gave 'em the cruets, quite fluster'd,
When only think what did they did do
In return—I got pepper and mustard.
Rumpti iddity iddity, &c.
All seem'd nation dry in the throttle—
Their heads wur for ever a bobbing,
As they call'd I to bring a fresh bottle.
To see 'em put things out o' sight,
To mysen I could scarcely help saying—
‘If folks wish for a good appetite,
They mun go where they dine without paying.’
Rumpti iddity iddity, &c.
The Company stood up to dance, sirs—
When Dowager Bombazine, then,
Like a Neddy in panniers did prance, sirs.
We supp'd when the day wur a dawning,
And then danc'd again till quite lihgt, sir—
And at seven o'clock in the morning,
They all on 'em wish'd us good night, sirs!
Rumpti iddity iddity, &c.
A ROUND OF TOPERS?
A COMIC BACCHANALIAN SONG.
Sung by the late Mr. John Reeve, Mr. Ralph Sherwin, &c. at Convivial Parties. Air—Chapter of Kings.
Total Abstinence only is practised by fools.
Possessing plain sense, we have not now to learn,
That, some time or other, all drink in their turn!
For, barring all pother 'bout this, that, or t'other
We all take a drop in our turn!
And Blackstrap in plenty's the Shoemaker's pride—
The Dustmen gets muddled, till scarce he can stand,
While the Glazier has daily his glass in bis hand!
Yes, barring, &c.
While the Potter's delight is to moisten his clay!
To be mops and brooms still is the Housemaid inclin'd,
And the Chambermaid oft is three sheets in the wind!
Yes, barring, &c.
The Parson gets pious—the Quaker gets we.—
The Traveller ofttimes is very far gone,
And the Gardener's frequently found in the Sun.
Yes, barring, &c.
While Madmen, as clearly, are ‘Non compos mentis.’
Tobacconists often get snuffy, we know,
And the Ladies themselves are found how came you so?
Yes, barring, &c.
Undertakers dead drunk get, by way of a treat—
The Pitman is in for't—the Soldier is fir'd—
And the Poet himself, sir, is sometimes inspir'd!
Yes, barring, &c.
The Cutler gets cut, though a very sharp fellow—
The Doctor his dose takes, for which Patients pay,
And the Porter still top heavy gets every day!
Yes, barring, &c.
While the Cooper must still now and then tap the barrel!
Friend Snob has his Heeltaps, and loves a wet sole—
While the Fiddler still rosins, and sings ‘Old King Cole!
Yes, barring, &c.
And to be in his Cups still is Tea Dealers's law.
We all are Rum fellows, when ent on good sport,
And may they Sherry off, who would not be in Port!
Yes, barring, &c.
THE TIME O' DAY.
Some half a year ago,
An awkward Country Clown,
Though now I'm quite a Beau!
I did but walk about,
To hear what folks should say—
And, 'cod! I soon found out
What wur the time o'day!
Tooral looral loo, &c.
White trouser'd plied their trade,
So I some Wellingtons
Of Feather's flour sacks made.
Wi' stays I, like the beaux,
Thought I'd my shape display—
Wi' collar hid my nose,
For that wur time o' day!
Tooral looral loo, &c.
Black neckcloths were the Cape—
They'll do, thought I, good lack,
For 'twill make washing cheap.
My hat I cock'd awry,
A Brutus to display—
Clapp'd quiz glass to my eye,
For that wur time o day!
Tooral looral loo, &c.
Wi' promises to pay,
And when they came to dun,
'Cod, then I ran away!
The Bench wur thereabout—
Where snug three months I lay—
Then whitewash'd walk'd clean out,
For that wur time o' day!
Tooral looral loo, &c.
And bow'd to Lord knows who—
In pastrycooks I loll'd,
As fashionables do.
I star'd at Peers and Clowns,
And when they turn'd away—
Cried, ‘Sniggers! Dang it! Zounds
For that wur time o' day!
Tooral looral loo, &c.
Says she, ‘Don't follow me!’
Says I, ‘Ecod, I shall’—
‘I'll slap your face,’ says she.
I dodg'd her North and South,
And, as she rail'd away,
Wi' kisses stopp'd her mouth,
For that wur time o'day!
Tooral looral loo, &c.
Folks' follies to disclose,
I nation soon found out
'Twere time my own should close
So, 'fegs, I'll now take flight,
Or you, mayhap, may say—
He at this time o'night,
Don't know the time o'day!’
Tooral looral loo, &c.
THE NEW LONDON EXHIBITIONS.
A COMIC MEDLEY SONG.
Though we new Exhibitions each day see appear
And to each Exhibition the multitude run,
As eager as they did to those of last year.
Where onr shillings dissolve, and no more meet the view—
Zoological Gardens, and gay Colosseum—
Which, I wonder, the most Monkies has of the two?
The New Figures of Madame Tussaud, large as life—
And two times as natural—wery uncommon!
Don Francisco, who draws all the World and his Wife—
With Tourniaire's Curriculum, and Exercise Roman.
And, What is it? Can it be Monkey or Man?
The Wild Man of the Prairies, who'd all things but speech—
Was it human, or Unicorn? Tell, if you can—
What is it? Why, itrwas the Gnome Fly, Hervey Leach!
Who're in the Black Art surely traders—
If you ask how I prove my case—
They've all of them sung till they're black in the face!
Sing, Minstrels, sing,
And twang your Banjo string—
The folks delight
'Till twelve at night,
Or very near one in the morning!
With OIO, the boatman row!
To hear the Ethiopians,
Sure every one must go.
Chock full of Classic grouping—
(Such ne'er before was seen at home)—
Where all the Swells are trooping!
Tobleaux Vivons all living—
The Tales of Roman and of Greek—
Art, with Nature striving.
Venus's, in fleshings tight—
Dianas dress'd in Buff, sir—
The real thing—oh, such a sight!
Al, other sights are stuff, sir!
In which so many miies are seen, it makes the Nativds stare—
Where the Battle of Sabraon's daily fought in safety there—
Of which the Sikhs so soon were sick, our courage was so rare—
All prov'd themselves true Englishmen, worthy the olnea fime!
His ain't the only wooden head, by which so many foolish things are said!
Ri tooral looral, &c.
Like the Carpenter, and wooden fiddle, the maker of it isn't idle,
But says, that in his head, no bother, he's wood enough to make another.
Ri tooral looral, &c.
To the Gardens of Cremorne by Steam haste away—
Where Quadrilles you may danee, gin and water may suaff,
And have at the Monkies and Dogs a good laugh.
Happy the night—blue devils take flight—
Ha, ha! at Cremorne all's ligha!
Evans's Supper Rooms are found,
Where store of all good things abound—
He's the King or the Eatable Islands!
There's chops, and steahs, and nips, and goes
And kidneys, all in skew'ry rows—
Welch Rabbits, too, as you'll suppose,
Grateful to eyes, and mouth, and nose—
Then 'tis ‘No Song, no Supper’ there,
All those who like may take a share—
There is not one but his Bob will bear
In Evaus's Eatable Islands!
'Tis Carnival the whole year round,
Though no Carne Vale there is found,
Such stores of all good things abound
In Evans's Eatable Islands!
The different Exhibitions here named were those of the period, 1846. They have of course been replaced by others—but the record may not prove uninteresting hereafter.
THE FAT BOY.
Who was never known any one's rest to destroy.
I've come here quite by chance, so, for company's sake,
I'll just sing you a song—it will keep me awake.
For we are all noddin', nid, nid noddin',
We are all noddin', abroad and at home.
Although I might answer, so do they—
Every one of them may be caught nodding at times.
Yes, they all noddin, nid nid noddin,
They are all noddin, abroad ank at home.
And will not on Sundays at home let us sty,
Nods at church o'er his sermon, and makes us, the elf,
Nod long ere it's finished as much as himself.
For they are all noddin, nid nid noddin,
They are all noddin to church when they come.
When one party speaks, to sleep t'other's inclin'd—
One nods till the other side's said all their say,
And as or the Speaker, he nods night away.
For they are all noddin, nid nid noddin,
They are all noddin to the House when they come.
And her lover's enteeating that she will be kind,
That she neither may grant nor deny him the bliss,
Will appear to nod, too, while he steals a sweet kiss.
Fur they are all noddin, nid nid noddin,
They are all noddin at our house at home.
Ya-aw! I really beg pardon—I'll bid you adieu,
'Tis high time, for I scarce my eyes open can keep,
And I'm sure that I must have walk'd here in my sleep!
For we are all noddin— yaw-aw!—nid nid noddin—
We are all noddin—yaw-aw!—to the end when come!
An Original Collection of Songs | ||