 | The Ingoldsby Lyrics |  |
Lord Waithman's Lament.
—“Omnium
Versatum urna!”—
Horace.
Versatum urna!”—
Horace.
'Tis sweet to remember
The years that are past,
If the sun of to-day
Shine as bright as the last;
But if black clouds envelope
And darken our doom,
That the day once was brighter
But adds to the gloom!
The years that are past,
If the sun of to-day
Shine as bright as the last;
But if black clouds envelope
And darken our doom,
That the day once was brighter
But adds to the gloom!
Lord Waithman sits lonely,
His back-shop within,
With his knees to his elbows,
His thumbs to his chin;
For, ah! fickle Fortune
Kicks over “his Urn,”
And he “grieves for the days
Which will never return.”
(Lord W. loquitur.)His back-shop within,
With his knees to his elbows,
His thumbs to his chin;
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Kicks over “his Urn,”
And he “grieves for the days
Which will never return.”
“And was it for this
That I headed the mob,
Riding proud in the van
At Queen Cary's ‘black Job?’
That aloft on the foot-way
My steed I bestrode,
When the heavy dragoons
Shov'd me out of the road?
“And was it for this
That Lord Kenyon I brav'd?
And in full Common Council
So ranted and raved?
That now, when at length
My reward I would draw,
And I ask for their voices,
Their answer is ‘Shaw!’
That Lord Kenyon I brav'd?
And in full Common Council
So ranted and raved?
That now, when at length
My reward I would draw,
And I ask for their voices,
Their answer is ‘Shaw!’
“Oh! shame to thee, Oldham!
Oh! shame to thee, Slade!
Oh! shame to thee, Thorpe!
Ye the cause have betray'd:
But on thee, faithless Joseph,
Be tenfold the shame!—
Sure Falsehood's a Scotchman,
And Hume is his name!
Oh! shame to thee, Slade!
Oh! shame to thee, Thorpe!
Ye the cause have betray'd:
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Be tenfold the shame!—
Sure Falsehood's a Scotchman,
And Hume is his name!
“To lose such a prize
Would drive any man mad;
Such a snug seat for life!
Oh! by Jove, it's too bad!
My blood's in a fever,
My brain's in a whirl,
Oh! what can assuage it?”
To him, Mr. W. Waithman, armed with a foaming tankard.)Would drive any man mad;
Such a snug seat for life!
Oh! by Jove, it's too bad!
My blood's in a fever,
My brain's in a whirl,
Oh! what can assuage it?”
(The Filial Consoler.)
“Six pen'orth of purl!
“Come, drink, daddy, drink,
Don't sit looking so bilious;
Nor excite our alarms
For our Paterfamilias,
Take a sup while it's hot!
It's chalked up to our score
At 102,
Read's Saloop shop, next door!
“Drink!—Care kill'd a cat!”
Don't sit looking so bilious;
Nor excite our alarms
For our Paterfamilias,
Take a sup while it's hot!
It's chalked up to our score
At 102,
Read's Saloop shop, next door!
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“Oh! hang it, don't bother,
Don't talk about cats!
You're as bad as your brother!
He said some disaster
Would happen, he knew,
When our Tortoise-shell Tom
Behaved ill in my shoe.
“He said 'twas a sign—
But, ah me! wretched sinner!
What to do!—where to go?—
Who'll now give me a dinner?
Oh! z—ds, I'll go mad!
I will! here's to begin—
Look here, Mister Bill,
Will this do for a grin?
(His voice rises an octave.)But, ah me! wretched sinner!
What to do!—where to go?—
Who'll now give me a dinner?
Oh! z—ds, I'll go mad!
I will! here's to begin—
Look here, Mister Bill,
Will this do for a grin?
“I'll vote for a ballot,
With nought but black balls!
I'll swallow Guildhall,
And the Bank—and St. Paul's!
I'll join Dan O'Connell!
I'll shoot Robert Peel!
I'll feed the Lord Mayor
For a month on cow-heel!
With nought but black balls!
I'll swallow Guildhall,
And the Bank—and St. Paul's!
I'll join Dan O'Connell!
I'll shoot Robert Peel!
I'll feed the Lord Mayor
For a month on cow-heel!
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“I'll murder Will Cobbett,—
Set fire to the town;
I'll smother that Shaw
In his Chamberlain's gown!
Such deeds I will do!
—What they are I don't know—
Oh!—I'm off in hysterics!—
Oh dear!—Oh!—oh!!—oh!!!”
(Miss W. sings within.)Set fire to the town;
I'll smother that Shaw
In his Chamberlain's gown!
Such deeds I will do!
—What they are I don't know—
Oh!—I'm off in hysterics!—
Oh dear!—Oh!—oh!!—oh!!!”
“Come, arouse thee! arouse thee!
My jolly old boy!
Take a swig, and to Guildhall away!
Relax thatfrown,
Put on your gown,
With the fur and the gold chain so gay.
My jolly old boy!
Take a swig, and to Guildhall away!
Relax thatfrown,
Put on your gown,
With the fur and the gold chain so gay.
“Are not you?—are not you?
Oh! a silly old boy;
To lie sprawling and kicking this way?
When you know Lord Key
Sports a luncheon at three,
And Flower will for nobody stay!
Then arouse thee, etc.
Oh! a silly old boy;
To lie sprawling and kicking this way?
When you know Lord Key
Sports a luncheon at three,
And Flower will for nobody stay!
Then arouse thee, etc.
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“Then at night—then at night—
What a merry old boy
You'll be in the ball-room so gay—
You and Ma must ride
In the coach, side by side,
And I, Jack, and Bill, in the Shay!
Then arouse thee!” etc.
What a merry old boy
You'll be in the ball-room so gay—
You and Ma must ride
In the coach, side by side,
And I, Jack, and Bill, in the Shay!
Then arouse thee!” etc.
(His Lordship looks at his watch—only ten minutes to three—Music plays an agitato movement.—His Lordship is supported to his carriage by two sympathizing shopmen in tears.—Little boy whistles “Go to the Devil and Shake Yourself,” as the carriage drives off.)
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