THE
COMIC ALMANACK
For 1841.
COMMONS, BUT NOT SHORT COMMONS
The bar of the House.
A sergeant at arms.
Milton on Stilton.
MARTYRS IN PRISON.
Sheriffs in custody!—in very quod!
Deep, but still jolly, in their dreadful sin;
Both reg'lar rum 'uns,
Each a noble feller,
And living just as if the House of Commons
Had got a splendid cellar,
And shoved 'em in the Duff and Gordon bin!
How very odd!
A sheriff's officer's the soul of trap,
Like pot-house people, always at the tap,
Though not a bar-gent.
Thanks that no sheriff here was sent to prison
By any officer of his'n
Tapp'd in the time of "tarms:"
But simply handed over to a sergeant
At arms!
These are no poets robb'd of attic bliss,
For when did Grub-street feed on grub like this?
Ham, chicken, veal, or tongue
For supper, 'stead of the "Night Thoughts" of Young;
Stilton,
Instead of Milton,
Champagne most sparkling, eau de vie most fiery,
And baskets full of cards of fond inquiry!
J orums of punch, the bowl a very fixture,
A nd made, like snuff, a sort of Prince's mixture;
N o end of wine, and, ergo, no repining,
U seful distinction betwixt wine and whining;
A prison-palace—comfortable, airy,
R ather a safe than dungeon, though terms vary;
Y our sheriffs keep good terms with January.
6. Twelfth Day.
That biggest cake, so prime and nice,
What's its price?
Guineas two!—well, there I'm done!
What's the other?—guinea one!
Humph! that little 'un—you can buy
For half-a-guinea:—O my eye!
If you please, a penny bun!
TWELFTH NIGHT.
(Not Shakspeare's.)
Miss Miffins was a blooming nymph,
Of almost half a cent'ry,
Who long had grieved her book of life
To keep by single entry.
She'd once a quiver-full of beaus;
Old, young, short, tall, dark, light:
Stokes, Nokes, Tibbs, Nibbs, Hill, Till, Fox, Knox
But never Mister Right.
In fact, she was a leetle proud,
And loved to play and park it;
And so, like many another fair,
She'd overstood her market.
The Baker woo'd her once, and oft
At eve love's tale would tell her;
But all she said to him was this,
"Begone you kneady feller!"
The Pieman, too, had tried his luck:
But there again her pride
Stood in her way: she couldn't bear
To be a Tarter's bride.
The man "wot drives the pleasure wan"
Had loved her to insanity;
But, as she said, "What's pleasure? Stuff!
And wans is nought but wanity!"
The Miller next, in honey'd words,
That love so promptly teaches,
Assail'd her heart. But "Come," said she,
"None of your flowry speeches!"
The Clothesman, too, although a Jew,
Desired to be her beau;
But finding Phillis look so cold,
Return'd to his old "Clo'."
The Pawnbroker had also shown
A flatt'ring predilection:
But "No," said she, "don't look to me
For Pledges of affection."
Thus all the men she jilted then,
And one reply they got:
"She'd rather live without a tie"—
But now—she'd rather knot.
So one twelfth-day—that is, one sixth—
She went the cakes to view:
Like all the world, who feel, that day,
A cake-oëthes too.
Of course the boys soon pinn'd her fast,
(No greater plagues on earth!)
And her poor gown became the vic-
Tim of their boy-strous mirth.
A cracker, too, by sad mischance,
And while with fear she panted,
At one fell bounce, soon fired her flounce—
Though not the spark she wanted.
A hero bold who stood close by,
Quick to her rescue flew,
And tore away the flaming robe:—
Her pocket vanish'd too.
She went into a fit—so strong,
That two young Tailors swore
They'd never seen in all their lives
So tight a fit before.
The swain into whose arms she'd fall'n,
When to herself she'd come,
Seeing that she was "all abroad,"
Begg'd he might see her home.
Arrived, they talk'd of this and that,
Love, war, and heroes dead.
A soldier he—a man of rank
(And file, he might have said)—
A Polish Count, a Knight Grand Cross,
K. X., and Q. E. D.;
Grand Master of the Blood-red Dirk,
And R. O. G. U. E.
In fine, to make a long tale short,
He tickled her ambition;
And soon at Church persuaded her
To altar her condition.
Then off she wrote to all her friends—
Aunt Smith and Cousin Cole;
To tell them all the news, how she
Was tied to a great Pole.
But, oh! pride, pride must have a fall;
Her cash he soon got through:
And then, one mizzling Mich'lmas day,
The Count he mizzled too.
And ever since, on fair Twelfth Night,
A wand'ring form is seen:
A female form, and this its cry:—
"Vy vot a Cake I've been!"
A MARRY-TIME VIEW.
10. Queen Victoria's marriage.
A wedding ring.
General Jam.
A Watchman in Seven Dials.
To gaze upon the wide expanse of ocean,
Far as horizon, I confess, sublime;
To feast our eyes on nuptial groups in motion,
Is, notwithstanding, just as marry time.
A Royal wedding host and pouring rain,
Both rushing on to-gether, and to boot,
By the park railway, carriages in train,
With shoals of footmen and of men on foot.
A gathering of the people, all from home,
The reigning Queen and raining sky to view;
In Italy the millions rush to Rome,
Are they not free to roam in London too?
Throngs of the curious—curiously met,
An inconsistent batch of low and high;
Drunkards, for instance, getting drench'd with wet,
And still declaring they were very dry!
Women with pattens found to clog the way,
Young thieves aspiring to the golden fleece,
'Mid torrents fair, that soaked, with equal play,
A new policeman, or a new pelisse.
Tea-totallers, with spirits under proof,
And lots of water for them overhead,
There was, because men would not stand aloof,
A general jam, but one that wouldn't spread!
Matters grew pressing, and, without regard
To toes or ribs, a bonnet or a belly,
The jam I speak of soon became so hard,
It nearly jammed some people to a jelly!
Yet at that Royal wedding, people say,
The pickpockets their trade did sadly botch;
For one industrious youth came all the way
From Seven Dials to steal a single watch!
The new Belle and Crown.
12. 11th Hussars, called Prince Albert's own.
God save the Queen!—we love her, and the sign is—
Millions of warm huzzas still greet her throne;
One thousand prime hussars she gives his Highness
But she is more than them—Prince Albert's own.
SAINT VALENTINE.
Des Oiseaux.
Sweet Valentine, thy praise is heard
In ev'ry grove so green, oh!
And thousand birds press on to join
The Concert Valentino.
There's not an oak, or ash, or elm,
But some fond couple bears;
The very apple-tree itself
Is cover'd o'er with pairs.
And though the groves are bare of leaf,
As far as eyes can reach;
And not a bough one bud can boast,
They've lots of flow'rs—of speech.
There's young Jack Daw, and young Mac Caw,
And Phil O'Mel (though late),
Each pressing on his am'rous suit,
With all his feather weight.
The beaux so very pert are grown,
That, when their lady wills,
Like oppositionist M.P.'s,
They wont withdraw their bills.
There's Mister Ostrich 'mong the belles
Is quite a forward chap,
Which, Ostrich-like, he seems to think
A feather in his cap.
Miss Pelican declares her beau
Is got beyond endurance;
And wonders at—she really does—
His Pelican Assurance.
Miss Pigeon's trying to look shy,
He's calling her "crosspatch!"
But, though a Pouter now she seems,
'Twill be a Pigeon match.
The Peacock leads his belle along,
And presses her to wed;
And now he gives his lips a feast,
Then gives his tail a spread.
Each fowl has got some pretty gift
Beneath his am'rous wing:
Some offer wreaths of orange flow'r;
The Dove has brought his ring.
There's not a birdie, young or old,
But feels that love has caught her:
The Eagle wants a little sun,
The Daw a little Daw-ter.
It's no use feigning this and that,
For little Love, ifegs!
Is firm, and makes each lady bird
Confess that "eggs is eggs."
List to the loves of Lisson-grove,
From robin, lark, and linnet;
While busses from the Nightingale
Are passing ev'ry minute.
The very bosom of the deep
Seems under love's soft sway;
And flocks of water-fowl are seen
Indulging their fowl play.
There's rev'rend Rook, and Daw, his clerk,
Sitting with well-stuff'd craws,
Read to lend a helping hand
To forward the good caws.
Each bird a poet now becomes,
And sings some sad refrain:
The Yellow-hammer ev'n has got
His yellow-ham'rous strain.
Some try to shine in repartee,
Who can't be smart in ditty;
The very Peewit on the heath
Turns all at once peewit-y.
I know not if the birds have part
In our new marriage laws;
But if they've not, it's clear they ought
To have their special claws.
In faithfulness they beat us far;
For, spite of all their freaks,
You never see the feather'd tribe
Going before their beaks.
So fare-you-well, fair ladies all;
I hope, before next spring,
Throughout the land you'll set the bells
All of a wedding ring.
| MARCH. | [1841. |
|---|---|
Alderman Armour.
HAT-ON GARDEN.
Vell, I'd give a farden to know vy they calls this here Hatton Garden. I'm sartain sure it must be done in jest; for if every hat aint hoff instead of hon, I'm blest! Hat on, indeed! vell, sartinly it's vindy; and here's a pretty shindy. They've rose the flat'lent element at last, and here it's peppering on, a precious blast! It's nuffin but a reglar blast of ruin, undoin' every von vith vot it's doin. Vell, blacksmiths must be most unconscionable fellows, if, such a day as this, they vants a bellows. I can't even svear; my pals u'd hardly know me: I don't feel no occasion to say "blow me." Oh! oh! here's a go! The voman's blowing over; she's a reglar charmer, but so unkimmon fat it can't much harm her. Vont there be chimbley accidents:—ay! lots. Look, look at Harmer and Flower's flower-pots; they're a fallin' on that old gentleman's head as valks below; and vot's vurse, it's too vindy for him to return the "blow." [They say as Alderman Harmer has left the town off, and he's made a breeze in the city vith the vind as he vhisk'd his gown off.] Vell, I'm hoff, so here goes; my eyes, how it blows! That ere image-boy can't hold his tray; ain't his kings and queens, and dukes, a rattlin avay. There goes a couple slick; the vind's broke Vellington and little Vic. Go it, my hearty! that's it, you've shivered Bonyparty; and, notwithstanding the furious vay in vich it blows and rains, if he ain't a stopping to pick up Napoleon's remains! Vell, I've heard of "mad as a March air," and precious mad I find it is, still I can't say as I care: as long as I get home safe, and there's nobody killed, I sees no great harm in it; only I hopes that them as vere particularly anxious to raise the vind, is vell satisfied this very minit!
| 16. Gibbon died, 1794. | "De gustibus non est disputandum." |
| High winds, and no mistake. |
"Will you not take another cup?" said the mistress of the tea-party. "No," answered the awkward gentleman, who had prematurely risen to depart; but, upon the word, his foot slipped over the hearth-rug, and he fell. "In refusing that cup of tea, and tumbling so soon after, you remind me of 'Gibbon's Roman Empire,'" said the wag of the tea-party. "Why?" "Because you are a living illustration of the decline and fall."
THEATRICAL FUN DINNER.
The Bard of Avon summon'd his ghosts
Around his own bright shade, in hosts,
And the characters came to the Poet of Fame,
To hear his mighty say.
"Well, now," he cried, "bright spirits all,
Hither to-day you have my call,
To quit the volume in which you are bound,
And make, together, a holiday round,
And go in a group to the play."
So the principal characters, giving a look
Of delight, jumped out of the Shakspeare book;
Daylight was on the wane.
Out they skipped, ready equipped,
And started for Drury Lane.
In full-ness of his fat led Falstaff, spruce and clean,
(No false staff wanted he whereon to lean)—
The van.
Othello, black, beneath his dazzling vest,
Polished with Warren's best,
Look'd just the man
For women fair to love him,
You felt you couldn't take the shine out of him!
Romeo escorted Juliet—pretty lisper, she fed on Romeo's whisper.
Hamlet, the fencing dueller,
(The only modern Hamlet we can boast,
Was born a jeweller;
Just as each uncle that our poets sing
Reigns now a pawnbroker, and not a king);
Hamlet, I say, took up his princely post,
Between his uncle and his father's ghost.
Shylock, the Jew that Shakspeare drew,
Had nobody to draw him now—so walked;
Macduff, Macbeth, Iago, and the rest,
Marched all abreast.
The witch alone, dress'd in her riding-hood,
Travelled upon her broomstick, as she should.
Grov'ling below her, in the rear,
Crawled Caliban,
While Clown
Turned somersets eternal up and down,
That he was born, to make it plain appear,
A Somerset man!
On, a few paces, jolly Bardolph goes,
To light the party with his flaming nose.
Now they gain Drury Lane:
There, of course, they need do no more
Than present themselves at the free-list door;
Over the book Jack Falstaff bends,
To write the name of "Shakspeare and Friends."
When, lo! with sighs, and tears in his eyes,
And to everybody's immense surprise,
Mr. Parker cries,
With a look of most discomfiting woe,
"I'm exceedingly sorry to tell you so,
But 'Shakspeare and friends' are now no go;
No go, I say, but to go away.
They are struck entirely off the list;
For the whole concern has taken a twist.
It's the Chamberlain's pleasure, I vow, with pain,
And Shakspeare's diddled at Drury Lane!"
By Falstaff's flabbergastered frown,
You see he now is thoroughly down,
Where he stood before like a swell so nobby,
He's ready to burst with passion and thirst,
And he'd get up a row, and bully 'em now,
But he sees the new police in the lobby.
So, to hide what he feels, he turns on his heels,
And to all his retinue making a sign,
Shouts, "Boys, follow me on the road to dine!
As we are not free at this house of base uns,
We'll march at once to our own Freemason's;
The Cuff that will greet us there, we know,
Is better than this last knock-down blow;
And there—of us every mother's son—
Shakspeare saint, or Shakspeare sinner,
As bonny before we've often done,
On the fat of the land, will feast at a grand
Theatrical Fun
Dinner!"
The tavern is open, they've gathered 'em there,
Fat old Falstaff has taken the chair;
He's eating away like an old gormandizer,
Who's been into College and come out a sizer.
And Bartley perceives, now he's taken enough in,
That Falstaff himself cannot play without stuffing.
Close behind his benevolent face,
And belly and back, as he's taking his whack,
Good Master Clown is making grimace,
And acting toastmaster-in-chief of the place.
Falstaff glows, from his top to his toes,
His great big body keeps warming his clothes,
As he puffs and blows, while his glass overflows,
He is lighting his clay pipe at Bardolph's nose
Drury Lane has dismissed him, alack!
But Falstaff's accustomed to getting the sack!
There he sits like a friar or monk,
Till the guests around grow uncommonly drunk;
The witch of the party, with gin they cram her,
In their eager strife for the good of the dram her;
But Shakspeare's voice, from bottle and stoup,
Warned all the spirits to go their ways,
And Cruikshank had hardly finished his group,
Ere they'd all got home to their several plays!
Dandies ask, How will the weather go?
A heavy swell.
Rainbows for
fine beaux,
whether or no!
fine beaux,
whether or no!
FISHER'S LAKE SCENERY.
Among sweet April showers there's no dangler
So persevering as your fervent angler:
Left, by less fond companions, in the lurch,
Upon his lonely boat he'll take his perch,
And fish for ever there by line and rule,
His poets must be all of the Lake school,
The only prose writers he'd ever brook,
In social brotherhood, are Pool and Hook;
Beat him on land, he thinks the insult odd,
Beat him by water, and he'll kiss the rod;
Has he a secret you would know past doubt,
Your only chance with him's to worm it out:
Take him abroad to ride, he'd rather die
Than have a coach, if he could get a fly:
He'd like to sit for life upon a raft,
In perpetuity of gentle craft!
What if a little hostel, by the stream,
Offer "fish, gratis!" what is that to him?
He'd rather sit, when clouds have hid the sun,
Between the rain and river, catching none.
What are the jolly inmates all about?
Drinking warm brandy, genial ale, or stout:—
And he? Oh! he is taking cold without!
12. Easter Monday.
"Mayn't I go to the fair, ma'am?" Bet inquires;
"Suppose all sorts of evils there beset you:"
"Missis, I aint that sort of girl, you know,
Harmless fair fun is all as I desires:"
"Well, if the weather's fair enough to go,
I think it will be only fair to let you:"
So fair, fair girl, fair day, and fair permission,
With the fare to the fair crown Bet's condition!
Poet's corner.
23. Death of Shakspeare, 1616.
"Sweet Bard of Avon!"—"Well," says Jack, "how you
Can call him Bard of A-won, goodness knows!
I'm sure as I don't: stop! I think I do;
He stands A 1, at Poet's Lloyd's, I s'pose!"
POETIC LICENCE.
I say, lend me a crown!
I've only three shillings in my pocket:
Well, hand them over, and then you'll owe me two!
DIVIDEND DAY AT THE BANK.
What a crowd! what a crush!
What a row! what a rush!
What screaming, and tearing, and noise,—
Of cabmen and footmen, policemen and bus-men,
And poor little run-over boys!
From Lombard-street, Prince's-street, Broad-street, King-William-street,
On they come driving full spank:
Old and young, great and small,
Fair and brown, short and tall;
For it's Dividend Day at the Bank.
Oh! it's Dividend Day!
Oh! it's Dividend Day!
And all sorts of queer incongruities:
Old men and young maids, deaf ears and bright eyes,
Are coming to claim their annuities.
All questions now cease—
Is it war? is it peace?
Who cares! Or for news of the Frank!
For Fleet or Conscription,
Turk, Russ, or Egyptian?—
It's Dividend Day at the Bank.
"Dear uncle," says Miss,
With a smile and a kiss,
"How rosy you're looking to-day!
Stay! stop! stand you still!
There's a fly on your frill!
Psh! there, now I've brush'd it away.
And here, look, dear nunks, is a beautiful purse:
There, take it—no words—hush—don't thank!"
And another great buss
Accomp'nies the "puss"—
(☞It's Dividend Day at the Bank.)
The merchant on 'Change
Thinks it looks rayther strange
That his wife should come out all that way—
From Kennington-common—
Such a very fat woman!
And such an "uncommon hot day!"
To meet her "dear duck,"
Her "love" and her "chuck:"
And then she's so hearty and frank,
Prates and chirps like a bird,—
But, of course, not a word
About Dividend Day at the Bank.
The Minister now,
With pre-occupied brow,
On some "secret service" is gone;
While loyal committee,
From borough or city
Is left in its glory alone.
"Yet he promised to be
Here exactly at three—
Only think! and a man of his rank;
And possessing such zeal
For the national weal!"—
But it's Dividend Day at the Bank.
Now summer suns glow,
And summer buds blow,
And summer birds gladden each hour;
While soft strains of love
Are heard from above,
And Beauty sits lone in her bow'r:
Sits lone in her bow'r,
And droops like the flow'r
That of rain or of dew hath not drank
To her lover she cries;
But no lover replies!—
It's Dividend Day at the Bank.
Oh! the poet may sing
Of the beauties of Spring,
In a hymn to the sweet first of May;
The hero attune,
To the eighteenth of June,
His glorious, uproarious lay;
To Saint Valentine's morn
Let lovers forlorn
Write verses, in rhyme or in blank;
I'll carol my lays
To the glory and praise
Of Dividend Day at the Bank.
I wish
you may
get it.
Polish Fate.
MAY GAMES.—Hogg's-Wake.
The village is out, the village is out,
Peasant and clodhopper, fool and flout;
Fast in the collars the grinners are seen,
And the squeaking grunter is loose on the green:
Halloo him, follow him, frighten him on!
Whip him and skip him, fast bid him be gone!
'Bout him, and knout him, and give him the flail,
And put plenty of soap on his curly tail!
Thus, in the midst of a beautiful run,
My tale is begun, my tale is begun!
Like a man after lodgings, who's got a first floor,
You're down on your belly, you country boor;
And his tail has given your fingers more
Soap than they've seen for a year before;
Good little tail, sleek, greasy, and lean,
Trying the villagers' hands to clean;
And see how they flounder, and see how they fail,
In seeking to hold by the slippery tail!
Thus, while pig and tail the villagers diddle,
My tale's in the middle, my tale's in the middle!
'Mid laughter, 'mid laughter, ran after! run after!
The tail of the grunter taunts great and small!
Catch it you can't, for it bobs aslant,
Like an eel that's beating the heels of you all!
That pig so sleek, it'll hold for a week
Its present connexion 'twixt Grisi and squall;
Till fairly worn out with its slipping about,
When you catch it, it wont have a tail at all:
So here, at the tail of the sport, my friend,
My tale and the pig's tail are both at an end!
Cotter's Saturday Night.
27. Order of the Bath. 1725. Water witch.
(Family Tale of a Tub.)
31. Wit Monday.
Admiral De Witt.
Pray, who is the fellow of infinite fun,
Of whom men declare that his wit, like the sun,
Shines and sparkles along—that its bright sallies glide
Like a fresh summer river at flow of its tide?—
Why, join wit, sun, and tide, and it's perfectly clear
You mean jolly young Whitsuntide—Prince of the year!
SETTLING DAY AT "THE CORNER."
"As I was going to (the) Derby,
All on, &c."—Old Song.
I wish I'd never bet;
I wish I'd never seen a horse or colt;
I wish I'd never join'd that jockeying set
I wish I'd stopped away
From Epsom on the Derby Day—
And all such places!
I wish I'd kept at home,
And never shown my person at a
Hippodrome.
I wish, instead of going like a dolt
To those horse races,
I'd gone to Cowes Regatta!
We've all our ups and downs, I know,
Both great and small;
But, oh!
Those Epsom Downs are worst of all.
What could have made me join those gambling jockeys?
(Out-of-door Crockies:)
How could I reckon so without my host?
How could I, cockney born and bred,
So run my head
Against that betting post?
Brought up in staid pursuits
(Not among nasty animals and brutes),
How could I think, to such a blust'ring clan,
My reason and my cash to yield?
I never was a martial man;
How could I "take the field?"
Why did I, stupid dolt,
Back that confounded, desperate Solace colt,
Or of that mulish Muley make a pet?
No doubt, large sums I thought of soon amassin';
But what a double ass I was to bet
On that Ass-ass-in!
The bounds of prudence how hard to regain!
When once a man o'ersteps 'em!
But I have done: Richard's himself again!
Yes, be assured,
I'm now completely cured;
At least, this shall be my last dose of Epsom.
It was an awful moment—that run-in—
(Especially for those young minors short of tin!)
I own I felt my heart sink then,
And all my thoughts seemed driven into a "Corner:"
And then I thought of North America, and Canton,
And then I turned a scorner
Of men,
And thought of Joseph Manton.
And then the race-course whirled before my eyes;
And then I heard a voice, in words of thunder,
Say,
"Heyday,
Good sir! you seem to have some great surprise."
"Yes, and it's Little Wonder!"
However, now
That's past,
And I have made a vow
That bet shall be my last.
All wagers now I nauseate and detest
("Odds" and the rest);
All jockeys hate,
(Welter and feather weight);
All meetings fly
(October and July);
In short, I think all racing sad,
And all its courses bad.
And as for the stupidity of those who go,
The difference, I trow
(If there's a tittle),
'Twixt Donkey-ster and Ass-cot's mighty little.
I've burnt my "books;" no horse again I'll back
(Racer or hack):
No more I'll hedge: and by the Grecian gods,
I'll not stand on the long odds.
With tens, and fives, and fours, and threes to one
I've done. I've done with saying "Done, done, done!"
My means no more I'll stake upon a Derby Day:
It's my last lay.
From this day forth for evermore,
Though I should live to four—or forty score,
I'll never lay another shilling—
If I do I'm a villain—
(Be this the moral of my tale),
Though you should make me the most tempting offer—
Golconda to an empty coffer—
A thousand sterling to a pint of ale—
You shan't prevail.
No matter what the sum
I wont.
* * * * *
Come,
I'll bet you half-a-crown I don't!