 | Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 |  |
120
A CHRISTMAS GREETING.
Farewell to the Lilies and Roses,
Adieu to bright lakes and clear skies,
Prepare for red hands and blue noses,
Fogs, chilblains, sore throats, and old guys.
The sun, Sagitarius nearing,
Begins to look blowing and queer,
And winds howl in accents uncheering,
The last dying speech of the year.
Adieu to bright lakes and clear skies,
Prepare for red hands and blue noses,
Fogs, chilblains, sore throats, and old guys.
The sun, Sagitarius nearing,
Begins to look blowing and queer,
And winds howl in accents uncheering,
The last dying speech of the year.
The days they grow shorter and shorter,
The town's worse than ever for smoke,
Invention, necessity's daughter!
How long must we blacken and choke?
Contract with some wholesale perfumer,
To wash off the soot as it falls,
Or let a gigantic consumer
Be placed on the top of St. Paul's.
The town's worse than ever for smoke,
Invention, necessity's daughter!
How long must we blacken and choke?
Contract with some wholesale perfumer,
To wash off the soot as it falls,
Or let a gigantic consumer
Be placed on the top of St. Paul's.
Oh! strive by some channel to turn it,
Ere down our poor throttles it rolls;
Why can't the Gas Company burn it,
'Twould save them a fortune in coals.
Much longer we ne'er can endure it,
The smother each resident damns,
Unless something's done to cure it,
'Twill cure us like so many hams.
Ere down our poor throttles it rolls;
Why can't the Gas Company burn it,
'Twould save them a fortune in coals.
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The smother each resident damns,
Unless something's done to cure it,
'Twill cure us like so many hams.
The Cit now from Thanet's fair island
Steams back to Bartholomew Lane;
The Peer posts it over the dry land,
To pace Brighton's new pier of chain.
The Lord Mayor, by mud and by water,
Displays his long draggletailed show;
And the judges to dinner besought are,
Too good judges are to say No.
Steams back to Bartholomew Lane;
The Peer posts it over the dry land,
To pace Brighton's new pier of chain.
The Lord Mayor, by mud and by water,
Displays his long draggletailed show;
And the judges to dinner besought are,
Too good judges are to say No.
The columns of each morning paper
With coroners' inquests are filled,
On some who in air chose to caper,
And some who their craniums have drilled
With thy fogs, all so thick and so yellow,
The most approved tint, for “ennui.”
Oh, when shall a man see thy fellow,
November, for felo de se?
With coroners' inquests are filled,
On some who in air chose to caper,
And some who their craniums have drilled
With thy fogs, all so thick and so yellow,
The most approved tint, for “ennui.”
Oh, when shall a man see thy fellow,
November, for felo de se?
But lo! through the dark cloud of evils
A ray is beginning to peer,
Which startles the host of blue devils,
As though 'twere Ithuriel's spear.
The pulses again freely play, for
Though faster may fall the snow flakes,
Merry Christmas is coming, and hey for
Waits, turkeys, mince pies, and Twelfth cakes!
A ray is beginning to peer,
Which startles the host of blue devils,
As though 'twere Ithuriel's spear.
122
Though faster may fall the snow flakes,
Merry Christmas is coming, and hey for
Waits, turkeys, mince pies, and Twelfth cakes!
A fig for each cynical railer!
We'll keep it up early and late;
I shall have a long bill from my tailor,
But, curse him, the rascal must wait!
Come, what shall it be, pretty lasses,
Hot cockles, pope Joan, blindman's buff?
It matters not how the time passes,
So you do but make racket enough!
We'll keep it up early and late;
I shall have a long bill from my tailor,
But, curse him, the rascal must wait!
Come, what shall it be, pretty lasses,
Hot cockles, pope Joan, blindman's buff?
It matters not how the time passes,
So you do but make racket enough!
Though fashion such sports has exploded,
Its firman ne'er think upon now,
But bring, with its pretty pearls loaded,
The misletoe's mystical bough;
Oh! why should we forfeit such blisses,
To follow the taste of a few;
Though some people may not like kisses,
I honestly own that I do.
Its firman ne'er think upon now,
But bring, with its pretty pearls loaded,
The misletoe's mystical bough;
Oh! why should we forfeit such blisses,
To follow the taste of a few;
Though some people may not like kisses,
I honestly own that I do.
Round a good wassail bowl of rich fluids,
Would quench e'en a Tantalus' thirst;
Libations let's pour to the Druids,
Who gathered the misletoe first!
And next, to the sweet girls who've bless'd it,
Wherever the pretty rogues be,
Who though they must seem to detest it,
Would live and die under the tree.
Would quench e'en a Tantalus' thirst;
Libations let's pour to the Druids,
Who gathered the misletoe first!
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Wherever the pretty rogues be,
Who though they must seem to detest it,
Would live and die under the tree.
And surely it won't be deemed treason,
Here met as we are round the hearth,
Of one who ne'er stands upon season,
To add to our comfort or mirth!
To wish him and his every blessing
Man knows in this unstable sphere,
And all the good friends I'm addressing,
An old-fashioned happy New Year!
Here met as we are round the hearth,
Of one who ne'er stands upon season,
To add to our comfort or mirth!
To wish him and his every blessing
Man knows in this unstable sphere,
And all the good friends I'm addressing,
An old-fashioned happy New Year!
| Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 | |