The Choice Humorous Works, Ludicrous Adventures 27

The Choice Humorous Works, Ludicrous Adventures 27

Bold, yet half blushing, the gay Lady Jersey,

Drove up to the entrance--but halted outside,

While Sefton's fair tribe, from the banks of the Mersey,

Who promised to keep her in countenance--shyed!

But this never hinders

The sham Lady Lindors,

Who stoutly goes indoors--

Old Rush does the same;

Great scorn of all such is!--

But Bedford's brave Duchess,

To get in her clutches,

Delighted the dame.

 

Lank Lady Anne brought her sister of Somerset;

The least she could do for the wages she clears:

If the merits of either were up to the hammer set,

They'd fetch much the same as Lord Archibald's ears.

Not so Lady Sarah,

For she, under care o'

Some Hume or O'Meara,

Lies sick in her bed;

Yet her name they twist in

By means they persist in

Of even enlisting

The names of the dead!

 

Then came the premature wife of her pen-man,

Her guide, her adviser--in short, Mrs. Brougham,

And then the spare rib of Go-sin-no-more Denman,

And sweet Mrs. Williams, and young Mrs. Hume;

Old Barber, and Taylor,

And Hood, could not fail her.

But the Muse can't detail, or

Discuss what remains;--

Except Mrs. Wilde,

Who, for roast and for boil'd,

While as cook-maid she toil'd,

Was the pride of Devaynes.

 

The Earl-King, fearing the tumult should ever end,

Sends her his brother, while he keeps away;

Honour'd by courtesy, by his gown reverend,

But neither by nature, came sanctified Grey,

With the Norwich Archdeacon,

Who thinks he may speak on,

Because, like a beacon,

His head is so light;

And sea-beaten Madocks,

And some other sad dogs,

Who (like stinking haddocks)

By rotting grow bright.

 

Damsels of Marybone, deck'd out in articles,

Borrow'd of brokers for shillings and pence;

The eye of vulgarity any thing smart tickles;

Drabs love a ride at another's expence;

So swarming like loaches,

In ten hackney coaches,

They make their approaches

And pull at the bell;

And then they flaunt brave in,

Preceded by Craven,

And, clean and new shaven,

Topographical Gell.

 

Next came a motley assemblage of what I call

Mummers, and mountebanks, wildly array'd;

Hod-men, and coal-heavers, landmen and nautical,

Tag-rag and bobtail, a strange masquerade!

A rout of sham sailors,

Escap'd from their jailors,

As sea-bred as tailors,

In Shropshire or Wilts:

But mark Oldi's smile and hers,

Greeting, as Highlanders,

Half a score Mile-Enders,

Shivering in kilts!

 

Noel and Moore are the pink of her quality,

Judge what must be the more mean partisans!

What sweepings of kennels--what scums of rascality--

Hired and attired to enact artisans;

Sham painters, and stainers,

Smiths, coopers, cordwainers,

And glaziers--chief gainers,

In such a turmoil,

Though chandlers and joiners,

And forgers and coiners,

And pocket-purloiners,

All share in the spoil.

 

Verdant green-grocers, all mounted on Jack-asses,

(Lately called Guildfords, in honour of Fred,)

Sweet nymphs of Billingsgate, tipsy as Bacchuses,

Roll'd in like porpoises, heels over head!

And the better to charm her,

Three tinkers in armour,

All hired by Harmer,

Brave Thistlewood's friend;

Those stout men of metal,

Who think they can settle

The State, if a kettle

They're able to mend.

 

Next come the presents--Whitechapel (where Jewsbury)

Sends needles to hem Dr. Fellowes's lawn;

Cracknells from Cowes--sweet simnels from Shrewsbury--

Rump-steaks from Dublin--and collars of brawn--

A pig--and a blanket--

A sturgeon from Stangate--

The donors all thank-ed

By Royal desire!

Old Parr gave his benison

To Parkins's venison,

But the pamphlet of Tennyson

He threw in the fire.

 

Last came the Lack-wit address of Sir Bunbury,

Bearding the Crown with his sinecure wrath!

'Twould look, I fear, too like a libel, to unbury

All the exploits of this Knight of the Bath:

From service retreated;

By Wilson out-prated;

Like him, self-created;

His star is his sin!

It's splendour is lost in

The honours of Austin,

And Hownam, who crost in

With faint-away Flynn!

 

And now, e'er I send off my song to the town sellers,

('Twill fetch rather more than the speeches of Hume,)

We'll give one huzza to her pure privy Councillors,

Lushington, Williams, Wilde, Denman and Brougham.

With Vizard and Cobbett,

And Hunt who would mob it,

And Cam who would job it

As Dad did before;

With Waithman the prate-man,

And Pearson the plate man,

And Matthew the great man,

Who found us the _hare_.[23]

 

 

THE CITY CONCERT.

 

"Paulo Minora canemus."

 

_Tune_--"Alley Croker."

 

When Caroline, the great and big,

Was feasted in the City, Sir,

United Radical and Whig,

In malice or in pity, Sir,

Invited every Cockney dame

The Royal cause to lift on;

No matter what her rank or name,

If she had but a shift on.

Oh! such shifts! the flaunting belles of Drury

Are neat to those of Crooked Lane, Ram Alley, and Old Jewry.

 

A few there were, not so obscure,

Who boasted of clean linen;

But they, as all their friends assure,

Were driven by their men, in;

Who thought that after such delay

The Queen would be extinguish-ed,

Unless the blustering _Times_ could say,

That some few were "distinguish-ed."

Oh, poor _Times_! how sad a scrape you have got in,

Whose proud distinction is at best, 'twixt addled eggs and rotten.

 

To face at once so rank a crowd

The Queen was thought unable,

So Thorp, he begg'd to be allow'd

To hand her to a table,

Where wine, and something better still,

That smelt like Maraschino,

Might, if administer'd with skill,

Give courage to the Queen Oh.

Oh the Queen! the sober Queen of Britain,

She very soon was in a state an armed chair to sit on.

 

When safely seated in this chair,

The females were paraded,

And like a showman, the Lord Mayor,

The honours of the day did.

Mrs. Thorp herself came first,

("Her maiden name was Twigs, ma'am,")

Who curtseying low, cried, "May I burst,

But I adore your wig, Ma'am.

Oh your wig! your wig so black and curl'd, Ma'am,

That like the whiskers of a Jew it looks for all the world, Ma'am."

 

The Queen, who thought this speech a scoff,

Exclaim'd, "Mon Dieu quel fardeau."

So Mrs. Mayor was hurried off,

And up flounced Dame Ricardo.

Quoth Thorp, "This lady whom you view,

Her head so lofty carrying,

Is one, whom an Oporto Jew

Cut off his son for marrying."

Oh the son! his figure would not please ill

One whose taste might chance to lie between an owl and weasel.