An Original Collection of Songs sung at the Theatres Royal, Public Concerts &c. &c. By W. T. Moncrieff |
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THE NEW LONDON EXHIBITIONS.
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 | An Original Collection of Songs |  |
THE NEW LONDON EXHIBITIONS.
A COMIC MEDLEY SONG.
'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.
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!
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.
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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!
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.
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.
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!
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!
Chock full of Classic grouping—
(Such ne'er before was seen at home)—
Where all the Swells are trooping!
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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!
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!
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!
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.
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.
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.
Ha, ha! jollily laugh! Ha, ha! jollily laugh!
Happy the night—blue devils take flight—
Ha, ha! at Cremorne all's ligha!
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.
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Happy the night—blue devils take flight—
Ha, ha! at Cremorne all's ligha!
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!
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!
| An Original Collection of Songs | |