An Original Collection of Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

‘There was once’—I declare I've begun it too high—
‘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.

‘There was once on a time’—I'm as hoarse as a crow—
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.

‘This man,’ as I said, ‘was call'd on for a song,
‘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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. Vale, at the Surrey Theatre.

What are mortals made of?
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.

What are little girls 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!

What are our little boys 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!

What are our young maids 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!

What are our young men made of?
Of larks and sprees,
And do as they please,

Horses and hounds,
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!

What are young lovers 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.

What are our young wives 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!

What are our husbands 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!

What are our old maids 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!

What are old bachelors made of?
Of bread and cheese,
And very weak knees,

Drivelling nose,
And rheumatic toes,
Funded riches and landed estate,
Worn out smalls and a very bald pate,
And such are old bachelors made of!

What are our widows 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!

What are our rulers 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!

What are our statesmen 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!

What are our judges 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!

What are our officers made of?
Of power and skill,
Opponents to kill;

A heart without fear,
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!

What are our merchants 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!

What are our M. P.'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!

What are our Parsons 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.

What are our doctors 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.

What are our lawyers made of?
Of causes and fees,
Demurrers and pleas,

The Court of King's Bench,
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!

What are our Authors 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?

What are our aldermen 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!

What are stock brokers 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.

What are our players 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!

What are musicians made of?
Of crotchets and quavers,
And great people's favours,

Cat gut to teaze,
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!

What are our dandies 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.

What are our Quakers 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!

What are our soldiers 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!

What are our sailors 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!

What are our Pawnbrokers made of?
Of money lent,
At twenty per Cent.

Apparel and plate,
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!

What are our audiences 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.”

Twelve parsons, once went, to a 'Squire's to dine,
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!

A wicked young whipster, our worthy 'Squire's cousin,
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.

“Agreed!” cried the 'Squire,—“Coz, we must not be loth,
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.

Dinner came: cried the 'Squire—“A new grace I will say,
Has any one here got a prayer-book, pray?”

Quite glum look'd the priests, cough'd, and with one accord,
Cried “Mine's lost!”—“Mine's at home!”—“Mine's at church, by the Lord!”
Derry down, &c.

Quoth our cousin—“Dear 'Squire, I my wager have won,
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.

“Done! done!” roared the 'Squire—“Holloa, butler! bring nearer
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.

But let us not censure our parsons for this,
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. Harley, at Drury Lane Theatre. Air—“Oh, cruel.”

Of good Queen Bessy's golden days our histories still ring,
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.

Prime Ministers they'd aptly make, each husband will allow,
When petticoats have government we all of us must bow,

As rulers, time still proves the fair possess the greatest skill,
For, say or do whate'er we will, the Ladies rule us still.
Tooral looral, &c.

That well the Ladies could our armies lead we all can see,
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.

That greatly she'd the pulpit grace is clear as is the day,
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.

That they are best of Counsellers, is clear to old and young,
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.

As Vintners and Distillers who can doubt the Ladies merits,
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.

As Tailors to their merits every Tailor still must bow,
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.

That they'd make famous Nurserymen our children fully prove,
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.

As Proctors they'd be perfect, for they still our wills controul,
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 thus I think I've clearly prov'd the Ladies all in all,
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. Herring and Mr. Woulds, at Astley's and Vauxhall.

Four-and Twenty Tradesmen all of a row,
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;

Todds, the linen-draper, who, but no doubt you've read it,
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,
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,

The Piccadilly Quadrant, where is owing a little odd rent;
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,
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,
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;

Besides the famed Freemasons,' where, if you take your dinner,
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,
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 Messenger, that every week to the country is a passenger;
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
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

The Aquatic Theatre famous Sadler's Wells,
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. J. Reeve, at the Adelphi. Air—“Devil on two sticks.”

Bob Pointer drove a stage, all day,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Thus, still he drove a stage all day, &c.

Charles Mathews was not more “At Home,”
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Thus, still Bob drove a stage all day, &c.

His part on each stage Bob dispatches with glee,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Thus 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.

Our hackney coaches now are hacks,
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,

For France has work'd their overthrow,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Kew—Putney—with their seven stages,
Droop like Shakspeare's Seven Ages!

For the Omnibus the rage is,
Yes, 'tis all the go.

The Omnibus is so complete,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Kew—Putney—with their seven stages,
Droop like Shakspeare's Seven Ages!
The Omnibus now all the rage is
Yes, 'tis all the go.

WONDERFUL LONDON.

[_]

Sung by Mr. C. Taylor, at Convivial Parties. Air,—“I am a jolly Pedlar.”

While travellers of Paris prate,
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!

Oh that's the town, for king and clown,
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!

There, generals from tailors run,
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!

There, palaces and prisons meet,
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!

There honesty still goes threadbare,
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!

There many a shewy outside walks,
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!

There still there's widows, mothers, maids,
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 bridges, streets, and colliseums,
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!

There's writing peers, and trading clowns,
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!

There's learned shoe-blacks, servant maids,
The first in fashion's flocks, sirs;

And beggars, who're such genteel blades,
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!

There's porters with their “by your leaves,”
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

[_]

Sung by Mr. Sloman, at the Theatre Royal, English Opera House.

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,

And next, a merry plough boy, who whistled —
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!

Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer,
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 —

On that spot, in ancient lore oft named,
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. Woulds, at Vauxhall Gardens Air—“Vive Tivoli,” or “Le Zephyr.”

My chapter of chimes,
And of truth-telling rhymes,

I've run o'er many times,
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.

Then ill rhymes to pill,
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,

And devil to level,
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.

Beauty wakes admiration,
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. John Reeve, at the Adelphi.

Mr. Hardenbrass Huxtable, nam'd,
I follow each calling and trade,

As a general dealer, long fam'd,
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.

Bell-ringer, I deafnesses cure,
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.

I gentlemen shave, and I mangle,
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.

Mathematics I know—I'm not joking!
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.

I've for writing an evening school,
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.

Nota bene—I sell ale and porter,
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.

I music provide, too, for balls,
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!

[_]

Sung by Mr. W. H. Williams, at Vauxhall Gardens Air—“Merrily danc'd the Quaker's wife,”

I am the man vot came to town,
And met vot I shall mention—
A man vot though but a country clown,
Vos von vot vanted a pension.

I vent to a house vot places books,
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.

“By vot coach, sir, vill you take ving,
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!”

I am the man the coach vot drives,
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.

Though this vos a coach vot had a load,
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.”

His bill, for vot he call'd a cure,
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.

“If you're the man vot doesn't pay,”
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.”

Then up came a lass vot look'd like a dove,
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!

Now I'm the man vot has been done,
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!

[_]

Sung by Mr. Davidge, at the Victoria Theatre.

A parish clerk, was 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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Ding, dong, ding dong, ding dong.

The ringers came, who rang so well,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Ding, dong, &c.

They cut him down, and quickly found
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Ding, dong, &c.

While Johnny Bell hung there, 'tis true,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Ding, dong, &c.

This Mrs. Bell's soft heart soon broke,
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.”

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Ding, dong, &c.

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.

There can be no sort of denial,
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,

In which justice show d a flaw.
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

For Quirks, and for Vexation,
Expence and Ruination—
For Tricks and for Evasion
There's nothing like the Law!

With many a fine oration,
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

For quirks, &c.

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.”

Oh, Time! how strangs thy changes—
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.

Now, thanks to Doctor Birkbeck,
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.

Our workmen, now, all leave their work,
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.

The Barber takes you by the nose,
And talks about Conk-ology;

While Warehousemen, in Thames Street,
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.

Undertakers, o'er their coffins,
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.

O er their sky blue, Milkmen turning pale,
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.

Innkeepers practise double entry,
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.

Among our Sweeps, the climbing boys,
Are, in their garrets, attic all,

While Cats' meat-sellers, from their cellars,
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.

Now Tailors learn subtraction,
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.

Thus knowledge now so common is,
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.

I've just come from the City, friends,
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;

For instance—Drugs are on the move,
While Paper's stationary!
Tol, lol, lol, &c.

There's in Tobacco good returns,
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.

Steel goods look dull—but Capers
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.

Then raw goods are improving—
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.

Of Iron there's a strong supply,
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;

And Straw has shifted strangely,
Though Hay remains quite stable!
Tol, lol, lol, &c.

Of Feathers we are nearly pluck'd,
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.

Of Corn there's great consumption,
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.

Good Peppers are in warm request,
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.

Brown Crush has got up lately,
And Dates cannot be quoted—
Quicksilver's steady—Sables a
Dead article are voted:
Deer Skins are cheaper—Hartshorn is
Reviving 'tis confest;

No Sails are made of canvas,
Though ticking's in request.
Tol, lol, lol, &c.

In Geneva nothing's doing—Hollands
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,

There is no cracking about nuts,
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.

This is the market's latest state,
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.

Hark! oh, hark! how merrily the trumpets sounding,
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!’

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Sad attendants, poor defendants, for assault and battery;
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!

Vestris' goddess! our Opera's Terpsichore!
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

This is the place for fashion, grace, gentility,
Elegance and attitude, agility and style,
Learned brothers, Commoners—Arts, Sciences, Nobility!
And county Members meeting with a gracious smile!

Malthus' musty problems on our over population,
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Malthus' musty Problems on our over Population,
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!

[_]

Sung by Mr. W. J. Hammond, at the Liverpool Theatre. Air—“Yankee Doodle.”

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.

Our Cits will all like comets move,
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—

“You may return at night, depend,
And see the play at Drury.’
Rail roads now, &c.

All things now, such our rail roads power,
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.

In rail roads Cupid will delight—
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.

Folks need for nothing feel at loss,
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.

If you are challenged over night,
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;

Get but a-head, you may defy,
The rail roads, the essentials!
Rail roads now, &c.

“I think I will, to clear my brain,
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.

The posts, must to the rail roads bow,
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. Vale, at the Surrey Theatre. Air—“Chapter of Dogs.”

Since all the world, my worthy friends,
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 Barber swears 'tis he best knows
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.

The up to snuff Tobacconist,
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.

The Glover will not rest content
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.

The Glazier o'er his glass, cries he
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.

Old Grits the Chandler votes when he
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.

Your Doctors that men to be kill'd
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.

The Pugilist says he has but one
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 Miller and the Baker for
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.

Poor Authors and Booksellers now
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.

The Brewer, a good fellow, says
'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.

Support the freedom of the Press,
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.

Now, to conclude, I'll only say,
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.”

When Christmas time brings rest and joy,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

For there's more delight in a play at school,
Than at Covent Garden or Drury.

Each Miss, then feeling Young and Kean,
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

For there's more delight in a play at school,
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.

A genuine new England lad,
On Marble Hill, a nester;

I've come a-head to make a trade,
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.

To tell my deeds, whom I bequeath,
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.

At school I twirl'd 'em round about,
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.

I'm spry to trade in any thing,
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. C. Taylor, at the City Dinners. Air—“Tol de rol'”

With friends we can make free, they say,
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.

In this, the age of Companies
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.

First on the list, the Stationers,
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.

Apothecaries, all must laud,
They balm our mortal ills;
And I could physic those, who would
Run down their draughts and pills!

Still may we meet in health, and own
We owe that health to them—
May they but want their drugs for those,
Their labours who'd condemn!
Tol de rol, &c.

In these enlighten'd times,
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.

Clothworkers' shall we slight you,
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.

Then here's the Ironmongers'
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.

Who to the Skinners' can deny
His approbation's meed,
I only this will say,
Is well deserving to be flead.

The Goldsmiths sterling value
Has been so often tried,
And pass'd current through the world,
It alike is London's pride!
Tol de rol, &c.

Fishmongers', all your generous acts,
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

Unremember'd the fair dealings
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,

Now, having prais'd the glorious twelve,
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.”

When holiday brings Nigger joy,
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Gladly all de world repair
To de Nigger Play!

Buckra man he slily come,
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Gladly, all de world repair
To de Nigger Play!

THE LIFE OF AN ACTOR!

[_]

Sung by Mr. W. H. Williams. at Vauxhall Gardens Tune—“Bartholomew Fair.”

When, first, a lively boy,
Ever fond of play and toy,

Some of sister's borrow'd plays,
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!”

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Chubby cheek—voice a squeak,
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!

As stronger grew the itching,
I descended to the kitchen,
And of success ne'er doubting,
Next tried my hand at spouting;

With table cloth for cloak,
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Cookey fires—with desires,
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,

A hero bold in chains,
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Act away—life's a play,
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.

Oh, him name it is Jim Crow,
And when boy in ole Virginny,

Dey sold him for a ponnd,
Just because him born in Guinea!
Wheel about, and turn about,
And jump jist so;
Ebbery time him wheel about,
Him jump Jim Crow.

But him put de Joes and coppers,
Dat him get, upon de shelf
Until him save up money
Enough to buy himself,
Wheel about, &c.

Den him go on board a steamer,
And be de fire stoker,
Where him prove sich a screamer,
Dat dey call him de black poker!
Wheel about, &c.

'Twix' Louisville and New Orleans,
Upon de Missisippi,
Up and down him sail about,
And when him massa whippy,
Wheel about, &c.

Him sich a great mechanic,
Of works dey make him oiler,
And him put 'em in a panic,
When him 'splain about de boiler!
Wheel about, &c.

Him keep 'em in hot water.
For ebbery ting him know,
And him show de coals no quarter,
When him jump Jim Crow!
Wheel about, &c.

Dere him learn ingineering,
To make de paddles go;

And dey say dat dere no safety valve
So good as poor Jim Crow!

Him so clebber, white man wonder,
And make him quite a show,
For ebbery one knock under
When him jump Jim Crow!
Wheel about, &c.

Him play one string on de fiddle,
And let all de oders go,
Wid him thumb place in de middle,
Jist as Paganini do.
Wheel about, &c.

Him so berry scientific,
Him go down to L below;
And ebbery one who hear him,
Dance and jump Jim Crow!
Wheel about, &c.

Him such a dab at Botany,
So well him know de greens,
That when him horticultural,
Him tell ebbery ting dey means.
Wheel about, &c.

Of the genius, and de speeches,
And how de pistols blow;
And den him eats de peaches,
Jist to show 'em how dey grow.
Wheel about, &c.

Den in New York a ostler,
Him work by steam again,
And cunning Yankee tell him,
Dat him still upon de main.
Wheel about, &c.

Him rub down de Pegasses,
And as him famous poet,

Him make de trumpery verses,
Dat ebbery body know it.
Wheel about, &c.

Him help to Colonel Crockett,
Who draw sich great long bow—
Put a bear in him coat pocket,
When him out a hunting go.
Wheel about, &c.

And now him come to England,
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.

[_]

Sung by the late Mr. Mathews, at the English Opera House. Air—‘Turnpike Gate.’

Those who may think a life at college
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Those who may think, &c.

Fellows at college, rare odd fellows,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Those who may think, &c.

Doctors, proctors—Greek and Latin,
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Those who may think a life, &c.

NATIONAL WASHERWOMEN!

[_]

Sung by Mr. Taylor, at Vauxhall Gardens. Air—‘They're a' noddin.’

They're all washing, wash—was—washing,
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!

For the great things and fine things, the Lords take their places,
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.

From Lincoln's Inn Hall, many old suits are there,
Though they're most of them rather the worse for wear and tear

For silk gowns the Counsellors wait your commands,
And the Lawyers have all got blue bags in their hands.
And they're all washing, &c.

The Admirals duly look over the water,
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.

From the stockings the Stock-brokers look for their gains,
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.

For the wet-sheets, the Author and Bookseller calls,
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.

O'er their irons in the fire, Speculators look arch,
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.

Many Doctors and Apothecaries duly there you view,
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.

The Laundresses swear 'tis a tale of a tub!
And declare they will give these old women a rub;

That unless, by white washing, they soon get some lifts,
The subscribers will quickly be put to their shifts!
And they're all washing, &c.

“WHAT ARE YOU AT—WHAT ARE YOU AFTER?”

[_]

Sung by Mr. Sloman, at Astley's, the Victoria, &c. Air—‘Merrily danced the Quaker's wife’

I came to town, the other day,
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.

At first I thought that they meant me,
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.

But, 'cod! for constables they sent,
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.

Escaping from the jailor's paw,
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.

But while I kiss'd this pretty lass,
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.

This made me turn so very ill,
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.

So long his bill, to Lawyer I
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.

But having now told all I saw,
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.”

Though in my youth I college mist,
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.

First, there's my bran new rail road shoes,
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,

Then, there's my cabriolet balloon,
Which in a brace of courses,

Will take you upon to the moon,
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.

Mine is the March of Intellect,
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.

Then, there's my pills, that cure all ills,
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.

Then there's my five pow'r spinning jenny,
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.

[_]

A Comic Duett, sung by Mr. Bedford and Mr. Buckingham, at Vauxhall Air—‘The Legacy.’

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

Your mother was put in the family vault!

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.

A dog, and a cat, and a cock, and a hen,
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 dog had a bass voice as low as Old Naldi's;
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 jackass, a Brayham became when he sung—
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.

Agreed, they all cried—so, until it was dark, through
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.

But the jackass said “no,” to this vocal Ducrow,
“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.

Such their fame, far and near, all their songs flock'd to hear,
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.

They the rage so became, with each fine-fangled dame,
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’

Fal lal—Curtsy dear miss, if you please,
Tol de rol lol lol—not too low;
Ti tum—mind how you bend your knees—

Whack fal diddle dal—now then go!
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.

Zounds! you'd make an angel swear,
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.

I've lost the time—don't start too soon,
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,

Don't you see you've lost your shoe?
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. Wilkinson, at the Adelphi Theatre. Air—‘The King! God bless him.’

Most folks give their sentiments after their songs,
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!”

Then here's “Lovely Woman!—each man will drink that,
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 moment now present, of life be the worst,”
“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.”

“A good trade, and well paid;” which ensures “peace and plenty,”
“Honest men, pretty women,” for ever!
“Play houses full, and Workhouses empty,”
And “May worth and want finally sever.”

Here's “The heart that can feel for another's distress,”
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. J. Russell, Mr. Ellar, &c. &c. Air—‘Bartholomew Fair.’

Hark! don't you hear the horn?
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Hey down—oh down, derry derry down,
Oh, bravo! what a hero's Mr. Punch, sir!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

I shall knock you hey down, &c.

Now all is fun and noise,
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—

100

Hark! that groan,
Sure he's thrown!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Hey down! ho down—derry derry down!
What a wonderful hero's Mr, Punch, sir!

Hey down, ho down, &c.
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;

101

Parson soothing,
Dance on nothing—
Ticklish touch
Drop too much,
Though they tell him he in paradise will lunch, sir.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Hey down, &c.

LONDON ADULTERATIONS:

OR, ROGUES IN GRAIN. &c.

[_]

Sung by Mr. Sloman, at Astley's Amphitheatre. Air—‘Dennis Brulgruddery’

London tradesmen, 'tis plain, at no roguery stop,
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.

Imitation, 'tis well known, is now all the rage,
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.

The Grocer sells ash leaves and sloe leaves for tea,
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

102

Other Grocers for pepper sell trash call'd P.D:
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.

The Milkman, although he is honest he vows,
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.

The Baker will swear all his bread's made of flour,
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.

The Butcher puffs up his tough mutton for lamb,
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.

A slippery rogue is the Cheesemonger, zounds!
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.

The Brewer a Chemist is, that is quite clear,
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.

The Tobacconist smokes us with short cut of weeds,
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.

103

The Wine-merchant that we abroad may not roam,
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.

Thus we rogues have in in-grain and in tea too, that's clear,
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.

[_]

Sung by the Author at the Surrey Beef Steak Club. Air—‘Bow wow.’

A learned sage, some years ago, when writing on mankind, sirs
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.

The thought was happy—I'll pursue it—(that is with your leave, sirs,
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.

Your Lords and nobles that so grand in stars and garters vapour,
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.

104

The lower-orders, labourers, and mechanics,and so forth, sirs,
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.

Your beaux's are tissue paper—a fine, but flimsy race, sir,
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.

Our lovely maidens, young and chaste, and innocently sweet, sirs,
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.

What are our modern scribblers? though they foul on me may fall, sirs,
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 Soldier's cartridge paper, in honour's cause enroll'd, sirs,
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.

Psalm singers paper are in quires, and some in reams have been, sirs,
Your Glutton is pot paper, whose small water mark's scarce seen, sirs;

105

And the crowd of silly fellows, who delight the world to blame, sirs,
While there's such a thing as foolscap paper, want no other name, sirs,
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Your Bankers are note paper, and oft to some amount, sirs,
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.

Emperors are Imperial paper, oft with ambition fill'd, sirs,
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.

Actors copy paper are, for our play wrights just the caper,
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. J. Reeve, at the Adelphi Theatre. Air—‘Oh, what a day.’

Oh what a change, all England now are slanging it,
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,

106

Have buried the dead languages, which once taey were so pat in
To study prime St. Giles's Greek, and bark out rum dog latin.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Oh, what a change, &c.

Slang the current language is, with gentry and mobility,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Oh, what a change, &c.

107

Your citizens say they're not green—that they've not come from Tooley Stret,
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,

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Oh, what a change, &c.

THE TONGO ISLANDS.

[_]

Sung by Mr. T. P. Cooke.

I sail'd from port one summer's day,
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—

108

We got as thick as we could be,
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.

My bride was fair, as you'll suppose,
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.

A most accomplish'd wife was she,
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 at my wedding store of guests,
I'd lots of princes, chiefs, and priests,

109

Who gutted like so many beasts,
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.

Now here once more I'm safe and sound,
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.

[_]

Written Extempore, and sung by the Author, at a Meeting of the Licensed Victuallers Charity.

Dame Nature orders wisely still,
That each content may win;

110

For every Jack there is a Jill,
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.

With them all classes find a port,
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 Doctor hurries to the Spade,
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 Soldier marches to the Gun,
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.

The Proctor likes the Fox and Geese,
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,

111

The Cooper at the Tun will quaff—
The Pedlar seeks the Pack.

As Shenstone says, all, who life's round
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.

Murphy hath a weather 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.

Murphy hath an Almanack,
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.

112

Murphy can the world eclipse,
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.

Murphy knows the Zodiac's signs,
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.

Francis Moore is now no more—
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.

Murphy is so weather wise,
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.

113

Murphy knows each wind of old,
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.

A flesh and blood barometer,
(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.

Murphy is an M. N. S.
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. Conquest at the Garrick Theatre. Air—The Pedlar's Song in ‘Oscar and Malvina.’

Now peace upon us deigns to smile,
And plenty cheers the people,
And virtuous counsels from our isle,
Still far, thank Heaven, keep ill!

114

Who thinks of this or t'other state,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

117

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.

Who for our Commons cares a groat,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

120

Domestic jars, &c.

Saint Stephens used to bear the bell
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

123

Domestic jars, and foreign wars, &c.

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.

Oh, what a town, what a wonderful metropolis,
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.

[_]

Air—When Arthur first in court began.

Victoria sought the Common Hall,
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!

124

[_]

Air—Bartholomew Fair.

In bustle, Neighbour John
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!

[_]

Air—Liberty Hall.

To famous Guildhall did they proudly invite
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.

[_]

Air—Chapter of Kings.

Our Henrys and Edwards, they feasted of yore,
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.

[_]

Air—Lord Mayor's Day.

There were four-and-twenty carriages, all of a row,
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.

[_]

Air—Roast beef of Old England.

Roast beef in its glory, the Englishman's fare,
Proudly smoked on the board—famed Sir Loin, too, was there,

125

With the Baron, to make all the Aldermen stare—
Oh, the roast beef of Old England,
Oh, the Old English roast beef!

[_]

Air—Alderman's Thumb.

Oh, 'twas merry in the Hall,
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.

[_]

Air—A health to the King, God bless him.

In a bumper of Burgundy, filled to the brink,
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!

[_]

Air—Here's a health to all good lasses.

Yes to her, who all surpasses,
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.

126

[_]

Air—God save the Queen.

God save our youthful Queen,
Long live our youthful Queen,
God save the Queen!

THE WONDERFUL SKITTLE-PLAYER!

[_]

Sung by the Author at the Surrey Beef Steak Club. Air—Derry down.

Baron Bowlemdowndingsdorff, as old legends say,
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.

And the Baron once catching Mynheer playing foul,
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.

I'm content, he exclaimed, but one boon grant me, pray,
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.

Agreed! cried the judge. Well, the fatal day came,
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.

Jack Ketch set the pins up, the Sheriff kept count,
'Twas settled a score was to be the amount:

127

Said the Baron, said he— ‘'Till 'tis one by the clock,
I shall play for my life, stake my head 'gainst the block.’
Derry down, &c.

Well, he played with great glee, forgetting, poor elf!
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.

The Sheriff, too, thinking he would never give o'er—
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.

To cut short my tale, Jack obeyed the command,
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.

Though somewhat confused, as you'll guess, by his loss,
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!

[_]

Sung by Mr. Hackett. Air—Original.

I've just come from Kentucky,
'Mongst the Shakes, in the far West—
Where, when I cut my lucky,
All the bears they made a feast;

128

For up the bee tree, in the cane,
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.

My father he was bosen's mate
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.

I'm half horse, half alligator,
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.

I don't stand on a trifle,
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.

I've got the prettiest sister,
And any man may have her;

129

They'll be sorry who have missed 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.

I can wade the Missisippi,
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.

I member am of Congress,
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.

[_]

A Buffo Scena, sung by Master Burke at the Surrey Theatre. Air.—Original. [Blewitt.]

RECITATIVE.

'Tis done! completed is the score,
Now, with the Band, I'll try it o'er.

130

Who a composer's joys can tell,
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.
[_]

Air—Away with melancholy.

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!

131

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 care

SONG.

[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!

[_]

Sung by Mr. John Reeve at the Adelphi Theatre. Air—There was a bold Baker.

I'll sing you a song about Newgate, brave boys,
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.

In Newgate we've nothing to bother our lives,
Ri tol, &c.

132

We're none of us troubled with children or wives,
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.

A place more convenient, boys, who could desire?
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.

In Newgate, boys, thanks to our honest friend Jack,
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.

The best judges often come here, for depend,
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.

Then we've doctors here will, when we're at our last kick,
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.

133

CHAPTER OF CLOAKS.

[_]

Sung by Mr. C. Taylor at Vauxhall, &c. Air—Derry down

When I came to town lately, I found, 'tis no joke,
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.

Why not? for I'll prove, in the course of life's pother,
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.

The Dandy, en militaire, still wears his cloak,
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.

Young Miss with her beauty spots, rouge, airs, and graces,
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.

The Lover, till wed, seems to court beauty's sway,
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.

The Lawyer a cloak wears as well as the Lover,
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.

134

The Wine Merchant, now finding cloaks all the go.
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.

The Patriot that he is honest declares,
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.

The Maids wear a cloak, too, when the men they disparage—
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.

The Doctor a very black cloak indeed carries,
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.

The Statesman a cloak wears when giving his vote.
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.

Now that all sometimes wear a cloak, having prov'd true,
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.

135

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.

When I was boon apprentice,
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.

My meester voork'd me zoorly—
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.

But when ma measter wanted me
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—

136

Oh, 'twas my delight, in a zhiny night,
In the zeazon o' the year.
Oh, 'twas, &c.

I zhow'd un a vair pair of heels,
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.

Noo 'tis I can vire a long un,
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.

As me and ma coomrades
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.

Az me and ma coomerads
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.

We popt un in the bag, ma boys,
An wandered off vor town:

137

We took un to a neigbour's hosse,
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.

Then here's success to powching,
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.

Vhat made me vond of powching vurst,
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. Rice with unbounded applause at the Adelphi Theatre. Air—Negro Melody.]

Although you but a Buckra gal,
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,

138

To have a kiss whene'er hoo choose,
Wid sugar in your tea!

CHORUS.

Buckra missy, toute suite—ha, ha!
Negro kissy, one, two—eomme ca!

[Kisses]

Him like Othelly tell you,
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!

Buckra missy, &c.

Him play de fiddle to you,
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!’

Buckra missy, &c.

You shall make him bowl of rumbo,
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.

Buckra missy, &c.

Him hab de piccaninni
To sit upon him knee,
As yellow as de guinea,
Where dem would princes be.

139

Him cock him eye through quizzing-glass,
And be such great big beau,
Dat ebbery gal as see him pass,
Will jump at him Jim Crow!

Buckra missy, &c.

TRIP TO BATH.

[_]

Sung by Mr. John Reeve, at the Adelphi Theatre. Air—Mail Coach.

When winter's nearly over,
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!

140

Hurry scurry, flight and flurry,
To Bath, dear Bath, we hurry,
To keep soul and body alive.

At Bath, now, stretching, yawning,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

141

Hurry scurry, &c.

Then to morning concerts hasting,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

Hurry scurry, flight and flurry,
To Bath, dear Bath, we hurry,
To keep soul and body alive.

142

MEDLEY LIFE OF GIOVANNI.

[_]

Sung by Mrs, Fitzwilliam, at the Adelphi Theatre. Air—Love's young dream.

How sweet my life, each beauty bright,
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!

[_]

Air—A lady in Seville's fair city.

I born was in Seville's gay city,
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.

[_]

Air—The Bold Dragoon.

There was a charming fair, and she lov'd a bold young man,
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.

[_]

Air—All in the Downs.

All in the Downs the fleet lay moor'd,
I for my life flew like the wind—

143

I hailed a boat, and got on board,
The constables they loudly bawl'd behind.
Tell us, ye jovial sailors, tell us true,
If Don Giovanni sails among your crew.

[_]

Air—Bay of Biscay.

Loud roared the dreadful thunder—
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!

[_]

Air—Fanny was in the grove.

Zerlina was in the grove,
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.

[_]

Air—Haydn's Surprise.

Gaily shone the banquet board,
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’

[_]

Air—Peas upon a trencher.

I passed my life in wooing,
In watching and pursuing
The light that lies,
In woman's eyes,
And that 'twas proved my ruin.

144

When priest and parson sought me,
I scorned the heaven they taught me—
My only bliss
Was woman's kiss,
That to the devil brought me!

[_]

Air—Newgate Melody.

Which makes me to lament and say,
Pity my fall,
You young women all,
Well-a-day! well-a-day!

BOOKS AND BIPEDS!

[_]

Sung by the Author at the Surry Beef Steak Club. Air—Bow wow wow.

Human Nature's a large library,
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.

A Soldier is a red book,
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.

Pretty women have good frontispieces,
Scolds are full of matter—
Young maids are books in nonpareil,
And Scriveners, in vellum—

145

Blacklegs they are piracies,
Rogues, books fraught with errata,
And Patriots very good books,
You so soon can buy and sell 'em.

Dwarfs, books in duodeeimo,
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!

Old Bachelors odd volumes are,
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 Proctor is a testament,
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.

Clowns volumes are in foolscap,
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.

146

Old misers are in marble bound—
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.

Bankers they are books with notes,
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.

A coquette is a riddle book,
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.

Thus Bipeds plainly are but 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!

147

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

All you who love feasts, at which Hymen is cook,
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.

The moment your gent in the gills becomes red,
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.

Two or three times, successive this plan must be tried,
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.

148

After marriage, more care you must take than before,
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!

[_]

Medley Song, sung by Mr. Russell at the Surrey Theatre.

As onwards through Chaos I hurried in haste,
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!

[_]

Air—Vestris's Bolero.

Hence doubt, and fear, and anguish,
No more my heart shall languish,
Love, Hope, and Joy are mine!

And I said to myself, 'tis no place for me,
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!

To Italy then, inspired by Hope,
I went to visit my friend, the Pope.

149

His sons seem'd happy—their Barcaroles
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.

[_]

Air—Rossini's Tyrolienne.

At close of day, with joyous glee,
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!

But soon, to wake me from this dream,
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!”

As I flew o'er the fertile fields of France,
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.

[_]

Air—Marseillaise Hymn.

Sons of Freedom, wake to glory!
See what myriads bid you rise!
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary—
Behold their tears, and hear their cries!

My heart grew sick, as the evening breeze
Bore the patriot sound to the Thuilleries

150

And I saw, in the dark and murky hour,
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.

[_]

Air—Old English Melody.

We've. young and old, all lately heard revived the good old rhyme
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 heiress of a good old house, embosomed 'mongst the rooks,
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!

The good old housewifery to study with the sun she'd rise,
And got by heart the good old way of making puddings—pies!

151

Preserves and pickles, jellies, jams, and home-made wines, likewise!
Old salves and plaisters for old hurts, which made her quite a prize!
The good Old Englishwoman
Of the olden time!

She'd all the old accomplishments within herself combin'd—
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!

With good old hoops and stomachers she dignified her carriage—
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!

She did not long survive her good old Lord when 'neath the mould,
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!

152

ALL WHEN THE LEAVES WERE GREEN.

[_]

Sung by Mr. Rayner. Air—Old Country Melody.

I was a brisk and sprightly lad—a very merry boy—
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!

Then Health was mine, and Wealth was mine, and all my heart desir'd—
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 kept my horse, I ran my dogs, was at all in the ring,
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!

Now here I am in prison laid, exposed to want and scorn—
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!

153

All you, like me, when young and gay, and friends and fortune smile,
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.

I gave her kisses one,
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

I gave her kisses two,
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?’

I gave her kisses three
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.

154

I gave her kisses four,
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

I gave her kisses five—
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,

I gave her kisses six,
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!’

I gave her kisses seven,
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!’

I gave her kisses eight,
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!’

I gave her kisses nine,
Who but me, who but me—
I gave her kisses nine, who but me?

155

I gave her kisses nine,
Her lips were so divine,
They honey, manna, nectar, seem'd to be!

I gave her kisses ten,
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. Conquest with unbounded applause. Written in 1845. Air—To its own Tune.

Some say de much renowned Jem Crow of Niggers am de posie,
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!

[Dances grotesquely.

To de Yankee country smuggled while yet a pickaninny,
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.

(Dances.)

156

All de clebber fellows ob de day vid me wish to be cosey,
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.

So him tink him just a word or two will say about de news,
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.

Dat John Bull for de succession needn't nebber hab no fear—
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.

De late French King he visit here, and it was one great pity,
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.

157

A New Exchange they've built up, on de place where stood de oder—
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 China Question Pottinger he settle in a crack—
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.

Dis grand ting for de Teetotallers, and make all ob dem grin
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.

Because to France her Buonaparte from St. Helena dem giv,
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.

158

Yes, though in Paris dey may strut, and wish Crow to be picking,
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.

But him tinks him must conclude now, dough much more him hab to say—
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.

Maidens, maidens! haste and get married,
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.

159

Think for yourselves, girls—your friends and relations
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.

Plainly tell them, if they should kick up any clatter—
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.

Tell them you thought fit to acquaint them all early,
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.

160

MR. AND MRS. RAILTON.

A COMIC CONJUGAL DUET,

[_]

Sung by the late Mr. W. H. Williams & Mrs. Fitzwilliam at Publi Concerts. Air—The Bold Dragoon.

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—

161

The poultry's old—the greens are cold—Yes, but you don't grow any thinner.

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!

162

Mr. R.
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!

163

Mrs R.
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.

[_]

Sung by the late Mr. Munden at Drury Lane Theatre.

Many chapters I've read of folks, fashions, and Kings,
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.

My first was, when long in the country I've stump'd
Up to town with ‘The Farmer,’ brisk lemmy, I jump'd—

164

And straight through ‘The Turnpike Gate’ merrily pass'd,
Where still I've remain'd your Crack man to the last.
Derry down, &c.

‘Sprigs of Laurel’ I gather'd in Nipperkin next,
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.

We very well know ‘Every one has his Fault,’
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.

The brisk ‘Busy Body’ my fame next advances—
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.

In ‘Speed the Plough’ Able and Handy I prov'd,
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.

In a ‘Cure for the Heart Ache’ I rapidly rose,
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.

Still Watchful in ‘Past Ten o'clock’ for your ease,
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.

165

But though I've through so many characters past,
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.

[_]

Sung by Miss Vincent, at the Surrey Theatre.

Ladies, Ladies, 'tis Leap Year! your privilege ply—
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

166

Who woos in Leap Year—pray remark it, ye Fair—
Through life may the badge of supremacy wear!

Court, court, Ladies, court! you can't woo in vain—
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

167

For who woos in Leap Year—pray remark it ye Fair—
Through life will the badge of supremacy wear!

Be bold—squeeze their hands—they'll not take it amiss—
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

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.

[_]

Air—Sure such a day.

Hail, happy day! so auspicious to the nation—
Such a day, so bless'd and gay, was surely never seen.

168

England pour'd her thousands forth, in festive celebration,
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.

[_]

Air—Haste to the Wedding.

In haste to the wedding there flock'd friends and neighbours,
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.

True Englishmen all, this their general call,
May they revel in pleasures that never can cloy—
Be their's royal felicity—
May they love and happiness ever enjoy!

[_]

Air—Fie, let us a' to the bridal.

To pay homage due at the Bridal,
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.

169

[_]

Air—Woo'd and married and a.'

Woo'd and married and all,
Woo'd and married and all:
The happiest they of all mortals,
When woo'd and married and all!

[_]

Air—Ah, sure a pair.

Ah, sure a pair were never seen
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.

[_]

Air—Merry are the bells.

Merry were the bells, and merry did they ring,
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.

[_]

Air—Plain Gold Ring.

For though a Queen the first on earth,
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.

[_]

Air—Bridemaid's Chorus.

For them a bridal wreath entwine—
Yes, those whom Concord sweet has join'd—
To grace and bless a Royal line,
And gently lull each thought unkind.

170

Be their's long life, unmingled peace and joy—
Each blessing may they ever find,
And nought with them love's charm destroy.

[_]

Air—Yankee Doodle.

Scorn the fates, and change your states,
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!

[_]

Air—Long live the Queen!

Hail! all hail our much loved Queen
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!

171

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.’

Of all the lads upon the turf, so wide awake, so knowing,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

173

Here they come, and there they go—'tis done, undone, and done!
Two to one, till the heat is run, and the race is lost and won!

Life's a chance, and fortune favours still the bold in courting,
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

176

Here they come, and there they go—'tis done, undone and done—
Two to one the heat is run—the race is lost and won.

THE JOLLY GOOD FELLOW.

SONG AND CHORUS.

[_]

Music sold by Duncombe and Moon, 17, Holborn Hill.

SOLO.

Here's a health to the friend at our side—
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 jolly good fellow—
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!

May health and prosperity long be his lot,
All his heart's fondest hopes realiz'd—

177

May each blessing of life, kindred, children, and wife,
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.

Upstanding, uncover'd, we'll drink it with three!
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 jolly good fellow—
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.

[_]

Air—Oh, Cruel.

Oh, cruel 'tis unlov'd to live, yet cruel is Love's smart—
Oh, cruel has Love been to me, and broke my tender heart

178

The fair sex all great cheats have prov'd, and foil' my hopes of bliss—
I never made a hit but once, and that turn'd out a miss!

Oh, cruel was my first love, and barbarous to boot,
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?

Oh, cruel was my second love, who'd ten pounds in the Stocks,
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!”

And cruel was my third love, who went with me to church,
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!”

And cruel was my last love, who said she'd marry me
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!

Oh, cruel was the Clerk that gave her to me for a wife,
And cruel was the Parson, that made her mine for life

179

And cruel were the Marrowbones, that clang'd such merry knells,
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.

County Courts of Request are Courts much in request'
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

182

She as sweet is as Sugar
And like I should to hug her—
But find me a rhyme for Porringer,
And I'll give you, for an Orange, her.

County Courts of Request, are Courts much in request,
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.

County Courts of Request, oh, they free are to all—
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

184

Now, Buggins, stand back,
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.

Kittywhack.
But Justice, my Lord—

185

His Honour.
In vain of Justice here you talk,
Give us the money, sir, and walk!

County Courts of Request, &c.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

187

His Honour.
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!

County Courts, &c.

THE FAST MAN!

[_]

Air—The Cork Leg.

Of the Dutchman's fast Cork Leg they've told,
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.

Jack Highfly was so very fast,
That both these worthies he surpass'd—

188

'Tis true he had in haste been cast,
But he'd fifty-tramp power to the last!
With a tooral looral, &c.

His sire—to whom he was mos dear—
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.

Fine lodgings had Jack all about town,
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.

When his tailor to patronise Jack chose,
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.

Drink more than any one, Jack could—
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.

You may believe that the truth I tell,
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.

It was always high pressure—a time of need—
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.

189

But this Railroad pace—though quite the thing
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.

The Bailiffs to nab Jack, vainly ran—
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.

Jack lived so fast that his race he'd run
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—

190

Female.
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!

191

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—

192

Male.
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—

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Female.
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!

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For we are jolly good fellows—
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.

A Carol! come, a carol, boys! in honour of good cheer,
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 beeves will bleed, that we may feed! What flocks for us will die!
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.

Fill up the wassail bowl, with spicy wine unto the brim,
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.

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Roast well the apples and the crab—prepare the toast and ale—
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!

Mincc Pie! it hath a magic sound—Plum Pudding's a charmed name—
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!

I love to see the Holly, with its berries glowing red,
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!

And pleasant looks the Misletoe, when hung up as a snare,
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!

'Tis sweet to be awaken'd in the pauses of the night,
By the merry Waits, awaking too, the echoes of delight.

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Like fairy melodies they steal upon the drowsy ear—
Oh, a Christmas night, it is my delight, in the season of the year!

What though Old Christmas brings its bills, to them no thought we'll give,
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!

Then welcome, Merry Christmas! for thou com'st but once a 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.

[_]

Air—Marlbrook.

We won't go home till the morning
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!

197

CHORUS.

We won't go home till the morning
In the orient sky is dawning—
We won't go home till the morning,
Until it is break of day!

We'll drink off bumper glasses,
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!

We won't go home, &c.

THE ROYAL LORD MAYOR'S DAY

OR, THE CITY'S WELCOME TO THE PRINCE OF WALES.

[_]

Sung at the Civic Banquet, Guildhall, with great applause. Air—Lord Mayor's Day.

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

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Queen, had, to add to our renown, borne an heir to England's Crown, the little Prince of Wales calling forth repeated hails, universal acclamation, and loud congratulation, from the very top of Guild hall to the bottom,

Down below!
For it made the day a Royal day,
Therefore they would be merry!

There were Four-and-twenty Ministers all of a row—
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—

From the very top of the Palace to the bottom,
Down below!
For it was on my Lord Mayor's Day—
No wonder they were merry!

There were Four-and-twenty Welchmen, all of a row—
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

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Principality. There was roasted cheese and ale, which they swallowed by the pail! For the Lord Mayor they all said, must be a Welchman born and bred,

From the very top of his head to the bottom,
Down below!
As their Prince was born upon his day,
Therefore they would be merry!

There Four-and-twenty Princes of Wales, all of a row—
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.

From the very top of their roofs to the bottom,
Down below!
And who was born on Lord Mayor's Day,
Therefore will we be merry!

There are Four-and-twenty Loyal Subjects all of a row!
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,

200

Little Albert, wishing he, may be as great and glorious, as happy and viciorious, as his ancestors of yore, and live a hundred years or more—the pride of every scene, while we shout God save the Queen!

From the very top of our voices to the bottom,
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.

When born, I squall'd in time and tune,
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—

203

My voice was Bass and Treble, too—
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!

Here's ‘Water parted from the sea,’
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.

‘In infancy our hopes and fears’—
‘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.

‘Mortals are but earthenware’—
‘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.

‘I'll gang nae mair to yonder town’—
‘Come listen to my story!’

204

‘Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown’—
‘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.

‘When thy bosom heaves a sigh’—
‘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.

That quite complete my voice might be,
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.

‘I care not what your wise ones say’—
‘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.

205

‘Drink to me only with thine eyes’—
‘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.

‘I'm a Jolly Pensioner’—
‘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.

‘Barney, leave the girls alone!’
‘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.

‘All round my hat!’ ‘If thou'lt be mine’
‘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.

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SECOND ENCORE.

Pretty little damsels, who are you?
‘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.

‘Bow wow—fal lal’—and ‘Paddy Whack
‘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.

‘Will you come to the bower I have shaded for you?’
‘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.

‘The Bridal Wreath’—‘The plain gold ring—
‘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’—

207

‘O tell me when, and tell me where,
‘Fuddle all your noses!’
Then buy my ballads, &c.

‘Flare up!’ ‘March to the battle field!’
‘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,

‘When Arthur first in Court began’—
‘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.

What is America made of?
An over grown nation,
Black and White population,
Down East, and Far West,
And getting the best—

208

Of high pressure engines, one hundred horse power,
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!

What are the Yankees 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!

What are Kentuckians 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!

What are the Yankee Girls made of?
Of cruel sweet smiles,
To cheer Jonathan's toils,

209

Of Didos, and shines,
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!

What are the Pedlars 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!

What are the Temperance Men 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!

What are the Niggers 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!

And lastly, friends, what am I made of?
Of truth, said in joke,
But in good nature spoke—

210

An Old Country friend,
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.

[_]

A Comic Song, sung by Mr. J. W. Sharp. Air—Bartholomew Fair.

One of that heroic band,
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?

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

211

Hey down, ho down, derry derry down
Oh Lord, who wouldn't be a Special Constable!

212

A baton of command,
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?

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

213

Hey down, ho down, derry derry down,
Oh, Lord! who wouldn't be a Special Constable!

The Soldiers and Police,
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!

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

215

Hey down, ho down, derry derry down,
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.

216

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.

Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry!
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!

Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry!
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.

Mutton chops, mutton chops, I cry!
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.

Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops, I cry!
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.

Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce I cry!
Fill a full glass on the sly—

217

If so be you ask me where,
To the wine vaults we'll repair—
When we heavy wet renounce.
That's the time for cherry bounce.

Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce I cry!
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.

[_]

Sung by Mrs. Fitzwilliam at the Adelphi Theatre. Composed by G. H. Rodwell.

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.

Then canzonetta,
In piazetta
And gondoletta,
Flowed from his tongue!

While Contadini,
And Signiorini,
And great Rossini

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Enraptured hung,
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!

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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, fish, fish, fishing—
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,

The Statesman's a Kingfisher,—a good haul who wishes—
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.

The Soldier's a Pike fish— a blood worms his bait—
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 Doctor's a Leech, who can bite very sharp—
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.

Lovers soft roed fish are, for maids who still angle—
Their bait a fine May fly—they themselves oft entangle—

220

The Ladies are White Bait, by which we're oft hook'd,
For they sometimes preve Thornbacks in church when we're book'd!
And they're all fishing, &c

The Bsnkers are Stockfish—the Gold fish they like—
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.

With the Miser all fish is that first comes to net—
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.

The Author's a queer fish, who fishes with lines,
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.

To prove both in Arms, and Arts, England bears sway,
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!

221

All hil, Shaakespeare! Glorious Shakespeare!
All hail, Shakespeare! All hail! all hail!

Bright Master of Smiles—Great Commander of Tears!
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.

Yes, to Shakespeare we'll drink—come, there's none must deny—
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.

May Monopoly ne'er to his Works set a span—
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.

He the ‘Tempest’ controlled—in his ‘Hamlet’ was chief—
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.

To Woman, best treasure, he's e'en added worth—
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.

222

With his ‘Windsor's Gay Wives'’ through long nights we have laugh'd—
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.

I no ‘Timon’ will be in proclaiming the skill
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.

Now here's to all Dramatists, Minor or Chief—
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.

[_]

Air—The Legacy.

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—

223

Tommy.
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!

224

Ambo.
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.’

Pythagoras, that sage pragmatic,
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.

Soldiers, Pointers in the field are,
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.

225

Lawyers, Dogs are hard to muzzle
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.

Courtiers, they're a pack of Harriers,
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.

Lovers, Spaniels are, complaining,
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.

What are Parsons, with their praying,
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.

226

New Policemen, they are Watch Dogs,
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.

Dogs in Office Magistrates
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.

Proctors, they are Barking Dogs—
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.

What's the Opposition Tories?
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.

227

The French are Dancing Dogs, delighting
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. Sloman at Astley's Amphitheatre. Air—Epsom Races.

With spirits gay I'll mount my nag, since all are in their places,
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.

Young Ladies still race after dress, their lovers, and the fashion,
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.

228

Some men race after health, and some race after pleasures funny,
While other men race after fame, but all race after money!

The Doctor races after fees, in very many cases,
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.

Who's for Cremorne! for the Steamers are going
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

231

[_]

Air—Over the Water to Charlie.

In the Steamers, by water, through Battersca Bridge,
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.

[OMITTED]

[_]

Prose text has been omitted here.

234

[_]

Air—Did you not hear of a jolly young Waterman.

In the Steamers alike, whether Citizen, Waterman,
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?

237

In the steamer by water, &c.

OH, LORD, MASSA!

OR, LILLY SNOWBALL'S LAMENTATION.

[_]

A Bran New Nigger Peccavi, sung at all the Nigger Concerts. Air—Negro Melody.

Mercy, Massa Overseer!
Pardon! No be so severe

238

Poor Snowball he be great blackguard,
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!

Massa Lavender, oh, dear!
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.

Of Madam Fig's Gala and Rout,
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!

239

Why your Yorkshire Routs bean't worth a straw,
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.

Twur on Miss Plum coming o' age,
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.

We had dinner at seven at night,
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.

A Coachman wur kill'd in the row,
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.

Some tea chests were nail'd up on high
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.

240

Lord Squint'em's glass eye it got broke,
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.

Mrs. Eatall, and old Lady Guttle,
'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.

Then wasn't there hobbing and nobbing?
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.

After dinner came tea—and at ten
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.

241

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.

Let Scholars and Saints preach Sobriety's rules—
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!

The Tanner we very well know soaks his hide,
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.

The Player gets funny, by night and by day—
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 Sailor to be half seas over don't fret—
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.

To be ‘Non se ipse the Scholar oft bent is—
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.

242

The Butcher gets muggy, as well as his meat,
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 Oilman gets Soapy—the Fruiterer, mellow—
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.

Musicians, with Musical Glasses won't quarrel,
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.

The Pugilist glories the Claret to draw,
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.

[_]

Sung by the late Charles Taylor, at Vauxhall Gardens. Air—I made love to Kate.

I came up to town,
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.

243

I found our Blackleg Dons,
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.

I'd wore my neckcloths black—
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.

Some rare long bills I run,
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.

Through Bond Street then I stroll'd,
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.

244

I met a pratty gal,
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.

Thus having rov'd about,
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.

[_]

Sung at different Places of Public Entertainmen. Air—The Temptations of good St. Anthony.

'Tis said, that there is nothing new under the sun—
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.

245

There's the fam'd Polytechnic, it you will but fee 'em,
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!

[_]

Air—Boatman, dance.

There's the Ethiopian Serenaders,
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.

[_]

Air—The Statute Fair.

Then there's the famous Hall of Rome,
Chock full of Classic grouping—
(Such ne'er before was seen at home)—
Where all the Swells are trooping!

246

Where there's the Poses Plastique,
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!

[_]

Air—Fine Old English Gentleman.

Then there's the Panorama, that is shown in Leicester Square,
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!

[_]

Air—King and the Countryman.

Then there's the Automaton that speaks, and never never stops for days and weokt—
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.

[_]

Air—Oh, light is the heart.

If light is your heart at the close of the day,
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.

247

Ha, ha! jollily laugh! Ha, ha! jollily laugh!
Happy the night—blue devils take flight—
Ha, ha! at Cremorne all's ligha!

[_]

Air—King of the Cannibal Islands.

And lastly, to complete the round,
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.

[_]

Sung by Mr. T. Richardson, &c. at various Public Places. Air—We're a' noddin.

Don't disturb yourself, pray—'tis but Joe, 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.

People scold because sometimes I sleep in the day,
Although I might answer, so do they—

248

For I think I can prove, if you'll list to my rhymes,
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.

The Parson, who tells us to watch and to pray,
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.

Both Houses of Parliament nod, too, you'll find—
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.

Young folks, when the old folks to nod are inclin'd,
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.

But I'm getting quite tir'd—no doubt you're so too—
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!

[Yawns—sinks into chair—falls aslaep—snores, and is carried off, first having a nightcap put on him.]

THE END.

University of Virginia Library

SONG AND NO SONG.

ANALIZATION.

GOOD DOCTRINE.

MORAL.

THE LADIES.

PAUL PRY'S NEW LONDON DIRECTORY OF TRADESMEN, STREETS, EXHIBITIONS, NEWSPAPERS, HOTELS, THEATRES, &c. &c.

CHAUNT.

CHAUNT.

CHAUNT.

CHAUNT.

CHAUNT.

CHAUNT.

THE THEATRICAL COACHMAN; OR, HOW TO DRIVE TWO STAGES AT ONE TIME.

THE OMNIBUS.

WONDERFUL LONDON.

THREE PART MEDLEY

FIRST PART.

PART SECOND.

PART THIRD.

CHAPTER OF RHYMES.

THE GENERAL DEALER.

VOT'S VOT!

JOHNNY BELL!

THE PICKWICK TRIAL!

OR, BREACH OF PROMISE OF MARRIAGE!

THE MARCH OF INTELLECT; OR, MECHANICAL ACADEMICS.

STATE OF THE MARKETS.

THE ASSIZE BALL!

RAIL ROADS NOW ARE ALL THE GO!

ELECTIONEERING.

THE BOARDING SCHOOL PLAY.

THE DOWN EASTER.

THE TWELVE COMPANIES.

THE NIGGER PLAY!

OR ROMEO AND JULIET AT BOSTON!

THE LIFE OF AN ACTOR!

REAL HISTORY OF JIM CROW.

THE LIFE OF A COLLEGIAN.

NATIONAL WASHERWOMEN!

“WHAT ARE YOU AT—WHAT ARE YOU AFTER?”

THE YANKEY NOTIONIST.

NEWS FROM HOME;

OR, BREAKING IT OUT BY DEGREES.

JACK ASS'S CONCERT!

OR, FOREIGN MUSICIANS.

THE FIDDLELESS DANCING MASTER!

CHAPTER OF TOASTS, AND SONGS OF SENTIMENTS.

PUNCH'S OPERA.

LONDON ADULTERATIONS:

OR, ROGUES IN GRAIN. &c.

A SONG ON PAPER.

CHAPTER OF SLANG.

THE TONGO ISLANDS.

INNS FOR OUTS.

MURPHY HATH A WEATHER EYE!

PARISH POLITICS.

THE ROYAL VISIT;

OR, LONDON'S WELCOME TO QUEEN VICTORIA.

THE WONDERFUL SKITTLE-PLAYER!

THE KENTUCKIAN!

THE COMPOSER REHEARSING A SONG.

RECITATIVE.

SONG. [_] Air—Away with melancholy.

RECITATIVE.

SONG.

RECITATIVE.

SONG.

RECITATIVE.

SONG.

RECITATIVE.

CODA—SONG.

RECITATIVE.

THE DELIGHTS OF NEWGATE!

CHAPTER OF CLOAKS.

THE SEASON OF THE YEAR.

MORAL.

JEM CROW'S COURTSHIP.

CHORUS.

TRIP TO BATH.

SONG.
[_]

Air—Away with melancholy.