The clocks all stopp'd, the dogs all howl'd, the lambs made lam-entation, Pans felt the pan-ic, china sets were set in agitation. Old Mr. Grubb, while carving, was so shock'd by this alarm, His fork slipp'd from a goose's leg into his neighbour's arm; While Mrs. Grubb, just then, was taking wine with Mr. Mace, Bobb'd her cap into the gravy and the wine into his face. A meeting of these sufferers resolv'd to make appeal, And get redress from Mr. Squibb, the owner of the mill; So to complain of various shocks they one and all began, And very clearly prov'd he was a very shocking man. Squibb very coolly told 'em the case was plain enough, No business now was carried on without the aid of "puff;" Men cared not whom they hurt by puff, so they grew rich and prouder, And so he tried what he could do by puffing off his powder. J. LABERN.] THE MODEST MISS. [Tune-"Sich a gittin' up stairs.” Such a delicate duck was Clementina Crimmins, Once the Lowther Arcade we took a stroll down, 'Cos she saw a Dutch doll without any clothes! Such a delicate, &c. Once taking a stroll with my modest dear, Such a delicate, &c. She went out shopping the other night, But rush'd from the draper's with great affright, 'Cos the innocent shopman, with looks quite winning, Happen'd to show her some undressed linen. Such a delicate, &c. With herself and mother I dined one day, Such a delicate, &c. She wanted to wear-'gad, you'd hardly suppose- In windy weather she wont stir a peg,. For the wind's so rude he wants to see her leg! Such a delicate, &c. When she goes to the butcher's-you may think I jest, But she never will ask for a leg or a breast, As for buying rump steaks, she has too much shame, And she calls a cockatoo out of his name. Such a delicate, &c. We've been going to be married-so she affirms— This eight or nine years, but we can't come to terms; She says she don't care how soon she weds, On condition that we sleep in separate beds. Such a delicate, &c. EVERY ONE TO THEIR LIKING-OLD ENGLAND FOR ME. THOMAS HUDSON.] [Tune-" "The Legacy." SOME time back, I felt much inclined to turn rover, Of pleasure to have an additional gleam; So, without preparation, I started for Dover, And cross'd the salt water to Calais by steam. No sooner on board, than the wind got alarmish, So high and so big roll'd the waves of the sea; I said to myself, all the while I felt qualmish, Every one to their liking-old England for me! We got there without being shipwreck'd or stranded, Excepting the sickness, quite safe and sound; I was carried on shore by a female, and landed, And glad enough, sure, when I touch'd dry ground. I strutted about like an Englishman, grandish, But their parley-vous talk and I did not agree; For even the children, they talk'd quite outlandish : Every one to their liking-old England for me! At Calais I found there is nobody tarries; The postboy's jack-boots were great wonders to see; We travell'd a matter of two miles an hour: Every one to their liking-old England for me! At Paris arrived, where they say every charm is, They soon inade me know I was no longer free; There's no misfortune in life but has a door: At last I found out what I was to do, That was to write to the British ambassador For a passport of one I had lost in lieu. I got it, but not till some days Id been waiting, They told me polite, I might then Paris see; 'Twas so grand, oh, says I, hang your Frenchified prating, Every one to their liking—old England for me! For fear I'd be lock'd up, and put to such rack again, On what d'ye think then my mind was bent? Why, I went to coach-office, and took my place back again, And came home from France just as wise as I went. There's many young men their own judgments have prided, In making a tour the French fashions to see, Emptied their pockets, saw just what I did: Every one to their liking-old England for me! When folk at home learn'd that France I had been there, Wi' questions they bored me, wi' might and main; To spend cash at home is an Englishman's duty; OH! LET NOT YOUR PASSION FOR MARY THE MAID. T. H. BAYLY.] [Music by Sir R. H. BISHOP. OH! let not your passion for Mary the maid, E'en pride from her presence shall never recoil, And who is more likely to make the pot boil Then throw by your gun, it might worry her nerves, And why shoud you shoot on a neighbour's preserves, Regard not her frown, you may penetrate stone, And your choice of a partner for life only proves DARLING NEDDEEN* The Music arranged by W. GUERNSEY. As Thady MacMurtogh O'Shaughnessy, oge, On a neat little hill that they call Drumcusheen; Neddeen, in the town of Kenmare, in Kerry, the property of the Marquis of Lansdowne. |