THE
COMIC ALMANACK
For 1838.

MANNERS MADE EASY;
OR, HOW TO COBBLE A SILK PURSE OUT OF A SOW'S EAR.

"Γαμμον ανδ Σπιναγε."

Punctuality is essential to the character of a Gentleman. Early in the New Year send peremptorily for all your bills. If they do not arrive in a day or two, send again. By this exactness, you give your tradesmen confidence, and ensure their civility for some time, in the hope of a settlement. Having thus prevented any increase of charges, you can pay at your leisure. I have heard of a gentleman whose aversion to the sight of paper ruled in money columns had been indulged in as long as was consistent with his personal safety, who thus addressed a creditor for whom the shut sesame of "call again" had lost its charm. "After having for many years neglected my affairs, I have at length awakened to a sense of my error, and have resolved, by a vigorous system of economy, to retrieve them. Method, Sir, I now perceive that method is everything. From this day I set apart a certain portion of my income sacred to the payment of my debts."—"I am delighted, Sir, to hear of your noble resolution."—"I have made a schedule of all I owe, and shall begin at the top and persevere undeviatingly in regular though slow succession towards the bottom:—so that you see, my dear Mr. Figgins"—"Sir, my name is Wiggins"—"Wiggins! I had quite forgot; but I am sorry to hear it, very sorry—for my list is alphabetical. Had it been Figgins, or even Higgins, there would have been some chance for you, but the W's are so very low down.—No, I cannot say when I shall reach the W's."

If you wish to refuse the request of an old friend or a poor relation, but can hardly screw your courage to the sticking-place, put on a pair of tight shoes, and you will find it perfectly easy.

Never introduce your friends to strangers without their consent, nor permit such a liberty towards yourself, especially about November. Many have been entrapped into the hands of John Doe and Richard Roe thereby, unawares.

Choose rainy days to pay your visits on. You will thus show your sincerity, and be less likely to miss callers at home. Take your cloak and hat into the drawing-room—to leave them below would be like one of the family—but, above all, carry in your umbrella; you have no right to leave it streaming in another person's hall.

When you visit your maiden aunt, as you value your legacy expectant, preserve an amiable face, and keep you hands and feet to yourself, while her favourite tom cat reposes in you the height of his friendship by looking you full in the face and vigorously stretching himself by the aid of his ten talons hooked through your tight and tender kerseymeres.

Though you may be a Nabob, or as rich as one, be not too anxious to parade your black servants before your friends, for both your sakes; they have, in general, two bad qualities—"stealing and giving odour."—Shakspeare, hem!

Never marry a widow (unless her first husband was hanged), or she will be always drawing unpleasant comparisons.

Never refuse a pinch of snuff, but do not become a snuff-taker: it is paying through the nose for a little pleasure.

Avoid argument with Ladies. In spinning a yarn among Silks and Satins, a man is sure to be Worsted.

It is common to speak contemptuously of tailors and dress-makers. This is bad taste; none but a rat would run down the sewers.

When a lady sits down to the pianoforte, always volunteer to turn over the leaves. To be able to read music is of no consequence, as you will know that she is at the bottom of a page when she stops short. If you turn over two leaves at once, you will probably have the secret thanks of most of the company.

When your friend enters the room instantly rise, and, though there may be half a dozen unoccupied chairs at hand, draw him with gentle force into your own. You will thus show the warmth of your friendship; for a damp seat may be as bad as a damp bed.

In driving out never make a lady treasurer of the turnpike trusts;—or, when you want twopence for a toll, you have to wait while the reticule string is snapped in two; then, out comes a lace-edged white muslin worked pocket-handkerchief, a pair of lemon-coloured kid-gloves, a smelling-bottle, a bunch of keys, and, to crown all, a five-shilling piece to change. All this time you are stuck fast in the jaws of a turnpike gate, the Brighton Quicksilver in your rear, driver raving at your back, leaders snorting over your shoulder.

Never plan a pic-nic, on pain of skulking about the town for six months after, dreading to meet, at every turn, the infuriated looks of the bereaved parents of half a dozen little innocents in white frocks and trousers, who have been washed away by an inundation; or to encounter the menacing glances of budding heroes, fierce in the rudiments of moustaches and chin-tufts, whose Celias and Delias have dropped into a decline through sitting on the damp grass at your instigation.

Never hesitate to take a friend with you when you go out to dinner. Disappointments are so frequent that the lady of the house may perhaps be glad of a spare gentleman to fill up a gap.

In carving, remember that "'twere well it were done quickly." He must be, therefore, the best carver who soonest fills the greatest number of plates. Waste no time in asking if people like a wing or a leg, this bit or that—many do not know their minds on any subject. Besides, as they cannot all have the prime cuts, nothing but discontent can ensue from giving them the choice.

As too much of a good thing is morally impossible, fill the plates well—the delicate can leave half, and the modest are saved the unpleasantness of a second application; besides making the hostess your eternal friend, if, through your management in the outset, some of the dishes go away uncut for another day.

Always return into the dish, before it goes from table, any portion of a ragout that your friends may leave in their plates. It is ten to one if your careless servants think of doing so afterwards.

Instead of waiting for the dessert, let your children come in with the first course—they cannot be used to good society too soon. They will furnish topics for conversation, and if any present be vulgar enough to require a second supply of soup, when the tureen is at low water mark, they will probably relieve your embarrassment by upsetting it, and so dispose of the question.

Help the darlings first—they are dearer to you than mere visitors, to whom you might, otherwise, inadvertently transfer some delicate bits on which the little cherubs had set their minds.

Do not detain the toothpick long after dinner—it's unpleasant to be kept waiting for it.

If a lady request you to select an apple for her, bite a piece out. How can you recommend it without?

Always wipe the brim of a pot of porter with your sleeve, if you are about to hand it to a lady.

HIEROGLYPHICUM IN FUTURO.

The Queen of Hearts, Virgo, a bright constellation,
(That she'll turn up a trump is the hope of the nation),
By a whole pack of outlandish knaves who are suing,
Is sorely beset, for she shrinks from their wooing.
Each holds out a circle in which to entrap her,
And ev'ry one hopes that he shall kidnap her.
But occult operations behind the state curtain
Shew an Elph, that makes their success very uncertain.
Now, look to the left, and you'll see that Egalité,
That awful French thing, wants to pull down Regality;
And, much to the horror of all Christian people,
It tugs at the Church,—or, at least, at the steeple.
A sage-looking wight, who is marking the "Movement,"
Seems to think it by no means would be an improvement;
But as prophecies often show forth strange vagaries,
And, nine times in ten, are explained by contraries,
Let us hope we shall find that a people's affection
Is the very best remedy 'gainst disaffection.
May it crush the foul traitors who love revolution,
And preserve all that's good in our wise constitution.

JANUARY.—New Year's Eve.

JANUARY [1838

JACK FROST.

Hail, Snow! not the white head at Snow and Paul's,
But speaking city-wise, that oddity
Which rises higher as the more it falls,
A paradoxial commodity.
The schoolboy's long expected an-nu-al;—
Abandon'd now are wicket, bat, and ball;
Gradus, degraded—manual, underfoot—
Rebate, at discount—routed, cubic-root.
The pelted village idol, by the way,
With hideous grin uplifts his hoary pate,
To make a parson swear, or poacher pray,
Or frighten some old woman passing late.
Perchance a supple New Poor-Law Commissioner,
On plans of pauper diet deep intent,
May start and think of some white-haired petitioner,
Turned out to starve by act of parliament.
But what cares he for hot, cold, wet, or dry?
Thanks to the Whigs, he gets his sal-a-ry.

12 Lavater d. 1801.

"I think I've seen your face before."
"WERRY LIKE."

26 Botany Bay colonized, 1788.

Rejoice and praise, in merry lays,
The wisdom of the wigs,
Which kindly found, on classic ground,
A paradise for prigs.
Assembled there, in talent rare,
Each knave salutes a brother,
And friendly yet, their wit they whet,
By practice on each other.

31 Young Pretender d. 1788. N.B. Race not extinct.

MY DANCING DAYS ARE OVER.
By the Gentleman in the White Waistcoat.

My dancing days are over now,
My legs are just like stumps;
My fount of youth dried up, alas!
Wont answer to the pumps,
Yet who so fond of jigs as I?
Of hornpipes such a lover?
Of gallops, valses,—but, alas!
My dancing days are over.
In feats of feet, what foot like mine
(Excuse me if vain-glorious:)
Like mine for grace and dignity
No toe was more notorious.
Oh! then what joy it was to hear
Roy's Wife or Kitty Clover!
But Drops of Brandy now won't do:
My dancing days are over.
My feet seem fastened down with screws,
That were so glib before;
And my ten light fantastic toes
Seem toe'-nailed to the floor.
I cannot bear a ball room now,
Where once I lived in clover;
Terpsichore quite made me sick;
My dancing days are over.
I used to dance the New Year in,
And dance the Old Year out;
Ah! little did I then reflect
That chacun à son gout,
All summer thro' I skipped and hopped,
At Margate, Ramsgate, Dover.
The year was then one spring—but now
My dancing days are over.
I'm eighteen stone and some odd pounds:
So all my neighbours say.
I'll go this moment to the scale;
But I can't balancez.
When in a ball room I appear,
As soon as they discover
My presence, off the girls all fly,
My dancing days are over.
I'm quite as fat as Lambert was,
Or any old maid's spaniel;
And when I walk along the street
They cry, "A second Daniel!"
And if I go into a shop
Of tailor, hatter, glover,
They always open both the doors:
My dancing days are over.
My college chums oft jeer at me,
And cry, "Lord, what a porpus!
Who'd take you for a Johnian?
You seem to be of Corpus!"
The stage-coachmen all look as if
They wished me at Hanóver:
The safety cabs don't think me safe:
My dancing days are over.
My great pier glass, that used to show
My waist so fine and thin;
Now, turn whichever way I will,
Won't take my body in.
My form, that once a parasol
Would always amply cover,
A gig umbrella now requires:
My dancing days are over.
In vain my hand I offer now;
Away each damsel stalks;
Chalk'd floors no longer may I walk,
So I must walk my chalks.
For me there is no woman-kind:
None wait me now for lover.
Maid, widow, wife, all fly—they know
My dancing days are over!
FEBRUARY [1838

VALENTINE'S DAY.

It's very odd, and even so, and why I can't discover,
That I should wait, at Cupid's gate, the knocking of a lover;
There's old Miss Young, with wily tongue, has tickled Captain Sly;
The wrinkled frump will bear his stump, to get a Leg-a-cy.
There's little Brown, I set him down for sure among the shymen,
He is, altho' so short a beau, drawn in the knot of High-men.
And Corp'ral Scout, to buy him out, the Widow does not falter,
It hurts her pride that he should ride so long without a haltar:
But pert Miss Green, just turn'd sixteen, she need not use such speed,
To make a hash with Count Moustache—'tis Baby-work indeed.

14 Blackstone d. 1780.

Judge of A-Size.

Judge Blackstone was a learned judge,
As wise as ever sat,
He wore his head within his wig,
His wig within his hat.
Judge Blackstone made a learned book
On subjects, and on kings,
And many reasons sage he gave
For many foolish things.
And many a wily way he found
For lawyers to get fat in,
And common sense, and English sound,
He smothered in dog-latin.
And simple ways made strange to see,
As clients, to their loss tell;
And many things that law may be,
Altho' they be not Gos-pel.
But since (see Job) we are but worms,
Our destiny we fill,
No doubt, in being gobbled up
By some long lawyer's bill.

28 Hare Hunting ends. "Nemo est hæres viventis."—Blackstone.

FEBRUARY.—Frost Fair.

FROST FAIR:
A LAMENT. BY TOM TUG.

Vell, blow me tight, but here's a go! I can't hardly believe my eyes,
It's a rig'lar Bartlemy Fair afloat, vith its stalls, and peep-shows, and t'ys,
And vonderful lambs vithout niver a head, and vonderfuller pigs with three;
And ships a svimmin' about in the air, instead of on the water, vere they orts to be;
And chaps a selling peppermint to keep the cold out, vich is jest the vorst thing under the sun;
And people a having their names printed on cards, vot can't read 'em ven they're done;
And lads and lasses a dancing and singing, and up to all manner o' queer raps;
And fat sheep a roasting whole, but not a bit for us poor amphibilous chaps;
And fellers a playing at nine pins on the ice, vot can't stand on their own two;
And ticket porters a stopping to see Punch, instead of going on their arrans, as they orts to do;
And firemen a cutting about here and there, as big and grand as any lord or squire.
Vith their red coats and badges—I s'pose they're afeard o' someb'dy's setting the Thames afire—
And booths up and down of all sorts and sizes, till it looks like a Boothia Felix quite,
Vith the moniment for the North Pole—that is, ven the fog and smoke'll let you git a sight—
And the turnpike men off the warious bridges, vith nothink in the vorld to do all day
But go to sleep on their rusty turnstiles, for in course people ain't sitch spoons as to pay
To pass thro' their rewolving plate-warmers, ven they can go over the vater free;
Vich I don't care so much for the bridge chaps, 'cause they does a good deal o' harm to we.
As for Billingsgate Market, the trade there's downright flat, ruinated and dead;
The fine fresh soles can't come up to be cried, and so they cries cast-metal skates instead.
I alvays thought sitch things vos regilated by act of parlyment, and proclaimed by the Lord Mayor;
I knows a bit o' Burnses's Justice, I does; and my opinion is, it aint a legle fair.
It's a nice look out, ain't it, for a young man vot the vater's his only bread?
I'm blowed if I don't think I shall cut the river, and take to the land instead,
And labour for the adwantage o' science—body-snatching, I mean—for where's the harm, ifegs!
Ven their ain't no further demand for skulls, to try to do a little bisness in arms and legs?
As for the vind, I think it'll never be nothink but due nor' again:
I often looks up at the weathercock, but, bless your heart, it's all in vane!
Poor fellers! as Shakespear says, our occipation's rig'lar done up, and no mistake,
Vot vith von thing or another (vich von misfortin, you know, alvays brings another in its wake).
I don't like to say nothink unliberal or unvatermanlike, but this I vill say, the ruin of us is
Them tarnation, smoking, steaming, fizzing, pothering, unnattaral-looking water-buses.
Unnattaral, I say—for who ever meant wessels to go on wheels? or a nasty, long, curly, black,
Stinking, pothery pennant o' smoke to take place o' the British Union Jack?
And as if that vosn't enough, to spoil our trade and set all our poor old hearts a breaking,
Mr. Brunel must come to finish us up, poor wretches! vith his horrid under-taking.
Mister B. is a wery ambitious man, that's vot he is, and his work a wery great bore:
But, thank heav'n! it'll be a long time before his tunnel (whatever his fame may do) reaches from shore to shore.
I never gets a sight o' nothink good now—beefsteaks, nor anything else that's nice:
No ingins (except steam ingins), and you may count my ribs (tho' you can't the ribs of ice).
I did a job for a confectioner t'other day, as vos a trying to larn to skate,
But his heels tript up right bang, and down he fell on the back of his pate.
Vell, up I vips him in my arms, and carries him straight off home in a trice.
I did think I should get a glass of grog for that job, but, says he, "Von't you take a ice?"
"No, Sir," says I, walking off wery indignant, and looking jest as sour as sour crout,
"Ven I takes a drop o' liquor I al'ys has it 'varm vith'—I doesn't like 'cold vithout.'"
But it's no use talking, for talking only makes one more hungrier and more drier:
And the heat of argiment's wery unlike the heat of a good kitchen fire.
I'm as dry as an old boat, vot ain't good for nothink in life but to knock up and burn;
And so I sees plain enough suicide's the only side on vich I can turn.
Bless you, I'm as hollow as a drum, and as thin as any poor devil of a church mouse;
So here goes for the fatal plunge—what's a plunge more or less to a man as hasn't got a sous?
Here goes—but, oh, crikey! vhere am I to go to find a drop o' vater un-froze?
Vell, that's the cuttingest thing of all—to think as a man can't put a end to his woes
In his own native element, as he vos bred and born to, and lived in, man and b'y,
Uppards of thirty-six year come next Midsummer (vich it never vill come again to I).
Vell, I've tuck my leave of the river, and my poor miserable little funny, so pretty and red:
I shall never shoot Lunnun Bridge no more, so I'll go and shoot myself instead.

A CHARITY BALL—Dancing for the Million.

THE GOOD OLD TIMES.

Let others sing of times to come—
Of joys that never will!
My song shall be of days gone by:
So, boys, a bumper fill
To the good old times! oh, the good old times!
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.
In the days of youth, when all was flowers,
And ev'ry month was May,
And my spirits were light as the thistle down
And my heart was always gay,
I loved a fair and gentle maid
With all the constancy
That a mutual flame in youth can inspire:
But, alas! she jilted me.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.
Friends of to-day, how vain are they!
The partners of an hour,
That fortune gathers round a man,
As sunshine wakes the flow'r.
My friend and I, in infancy,
Play'd 'neath the same old tree:
One home was ours for long, long years,
Till my friend arrested me.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.
My country's cause was always mine—
Britannia, ocean's bride!—
A patriot's name my dearest boast,
A patriot's heart my pride.
My leader was "the people's friend;"
'Twas thus he gain'd my vote:
But they put him on the pension list,
And the patriot turn'd his coat.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.
'Twas then I felt that honour dwelt
In noble ancestry;
That still in high and gentle blood
Some secret virtues lie.
My champion now I joy'd to hear
Rail at the parvenu:
But I soon found him on the Civil List—
With his wife and cousins too.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.
Disgusted with the city's vice
I to the country sped.
A simple husbandman, my life
'Mid flocks and herds I led.
The livelong day I'd pipe and play,
Or on some thyme-bank sleep:
But at night they broke into my folds,
And stole my cows and sheep.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.
They told me 'twas my single state
That harass'd thus my life;
And to the altar soon I led
A young and lovely wife.
Oh! then what joys, what hopes were mine.
Life seem'd a brighter heaven:
But my wife eloped with her cousin Tom,
And left me infants seven.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.
MARCH [1838

MARCH,—St. Patrick's Day.

MARCH
of Mind
in the
Privileged
Classes:
Marquess of
W——
and other
such asses.
⚹ ☿ ♏ ♀
♊ ☽ ♂ ☌
MARCH
of
Musical Science
also
'mong high
and low,
who jump
Jim Crow;

♀ ♒ ♄ ☿
the force of
taste
☍ ♈ ♀ ⚹
can
no further
go!

TAFFY'S ANNIVERSARY.

Come, Liberality!—I hail the name,
Whether 'tis "all for love," or love for fame—
Whether to strike the world is your desire,
In printed lists of donors dubbed "Esquire;"
Whether to govern in those stately domes
Where Want's pale children sigh in vain for homes,
And few but those who're blest with wealth and kin,
And means to keep them out, can struggle in;
Whether you boldly sport your own bank-notes,
Or beg about for other people's votes;
Whether you fill the presidential chair,
Or join the throng because a Lord is there;
Or, like some Lords, whose plan is rather funny,
Put down your name, but never pay the money.
But if, like some, the only certain way
To reach your heart does through your stomach lay,
Then mount the leek, a true Saint David's son,
And let the fund afford a little fun,
'Mid warring knives, and charge of glasses' din,
Turn out your purse, and be well lined within.
Tough tho' the mutton, as a saddle, there,
Like Bardolph, you can eat, and "eat and swear,"
And doom, with aching teeth and furious looks,
The dinner to the sire of all bad cooks.—
But now behold, the dishes clear'd and gone,
Three dismal men who twine three tunes in one,
And send forth sounds, with faces sad to see,
Call'd by the chair, "The favour of a Glee."—
Appealing lists appal you now, and they
Are nail'd for pounds, who screw for pence all day.
But hear the sweet applauses of the crowd,
When Mister Secretary reads aloud
That Smith or Jones has put down One Pound One;
Then, if you've luck to get a hat, begone,
Unless you longing linger near the spot
To hear "Should auld acquaintance be forgot."

ST. PATRICK'S DAY.
An Irish Mellow-day.

It was Paddy O'Murrough that lov'd Mistress Casey:
In ribbons for her he would squander his pelf;
And he swore that without her he'd never be aisy,
And sent her big praties to roast for herself.
He said she was "Vanus, and Mars, and Apolly,"
And twenty more goddesses up in de skies:
And never tired praising her swate little ankle,
And her swate little mouth, and her swate little eyes.
Says he, "Let de rest git dere bunches o' roses,
And stick 'em so iligant top o' dere head:
Och! Nora don't nade sich bamboozlificashin:
Her own purty locks is as bright an' as red.
"So, Nora, my darlint, now take pity on me—
Ochone! but 'tis luv is de terrible smart!
An och, bodderashin! 'tis Misther O'Cupid
Wid his little shilaly is breakin' my heart!"
'Twas Lent when Pat said so,—but Nora said, "No, Sir;"
She knew 'twas no use at that time to consent;
But by Mothering Sunday Pat found her much softer,
And before Lent was over, he saw her relent.
The day was soon fixed—Easter Monday, be sure,
The time seem'd to Pat a snail's gallop to go;
"By de hokey!" says he, "is it fast days dey call 'em?
For fast days I tink dey move murtherous slow."
At length Easter Monday arrived bright and gay,
Saint Patrick's Day too—nothing could be more pat
To chapel away they all went—in a buss:
For a wedding, what carriage so proper as that?
So the knot was soon happily tied—tho' I know
There are some in the world think it wrong thus to tie men;
That the poor have no right to get married at all;
And that low men have no sort of bus'ness with Hymen.
Return'd, they sat down to an iligant feast:
An divil the knife or the fork that lies idle;
There's praties in plenty, pig-puddings, and pork,
And a saddle of mutton, to match with the bridal.
And then comes the dance, and the drink, and the toast:
"Pat Murrough, your health—you're a broth of a b'y"
Och! how tipsy they were! e'en the clargy himself,
Like Pity, was seen with a drop in his eye.
Then in comes Mick Larry, Pat Murrough's old rival,
With a lot of his friends from Sev'n Dials direct;
And och! what a scrimmige and murther intirely!
And then the police comes, the peace to protect.
Then straight to the beak Paddy Murrough is taken:
Mick Larry himself 'tis appears against Pat;
Says the beak, "You're with bigamy charged, Paddy Murrough!"
"Och, big'my! 'tis little I know sure of that!"
"What is it, your wurtchip?" says Paddy.—Says he,
"'Tis a serious offence 'gainst the laws of the nation—
To marry two wives, which is bigamy call'd—
And the punishment death—or, at least, transportation.
"So take leave of your spouses, for I must commit you!"
"Stop a minnit, my jewel!" says Paddy, says he:
"Sure I know'd very well what your wurtchip has tould me;
And so, to be safe, I got married to three!"
APRIL [1838

THE DARBY DAY.

Come, Bet, my pet, and Sal, my pal, a buss, and then farewell—
And Ned, the primest ruffling cove that ever nail'd a swell—
To share the swag, or chaff the gab, we'll never meet again,
The hulks is now my bowsing crib, the hold my dossing ken.
Don't nab the bib, my Bet, this chance must happen soon or later,
For certain sure it is that transportation comes by natur;
His lordship's self, upon the bench, so downie his white wig in,
Might sail with me, if friends had he to bring him up to priggin;
And is it not unkimmon fly in them as rules the nation,
To make us end, with Botany, our public edication?
But Sal, so kind, be sure you mind the beaks don't catch you tripping,
You'll find it hard to be for shopping sent on board the shipping:
So tip your mauns afore we parts, don't blear your eyes and nose,
Another grip, my jolly hearts—here's luck, and off we goes!

SETTLING FOR THE HOAX.

3 Low Sunday. "Facile est descensus—"

8 Sir R. Peel resigned, 1835.

To all the virtues of exalted station,
He adds the greater one of resignation.

15 Clock with Sun.

Caution.—Never undertake to get a lady's watch repaired, or you will be held responsible for its defects ever after.

24 Geological Society instituted, 1826.

Kind friends in need are they who make no bones,
When paupers ask for bread, to give them stones.

APRIL.——Low Sunday.

ODE TO SIR ANDREW AGNEW:
AND ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.

Sir Andrew Agnew, oh! thou scourge of sinners,
Thou legislator against vice
And nice
Hot Sunday dinners!
What shall we do
Now thou art gone—thou and Sir Oswald[3] too—
To make men fast and pray
Each seventh day?
Who now shall save us from sin's burning embers?
Now that we've lost our two old Marrowbone members?
But seriously, Sir Andrew, do you think
There's so much harm in meat and drink?
That a hot steak
Ate once a week
Shows a depraved state of society?
That frizzled bacon
Argues a soul mistaken?
And—pray don't start!—
That devil'd kidneys show a dev'lish heart?
That there is irreligion in hot fry?
And that cold pie alone is pie-ty?
If so, begin, Sir, with the rich: ask these
To give up their ragouts, and stews, and fricassees.
I guess they'd think your application rather strange;
But if you will work out your Bill,
Believe me, you must take a wider kitchen range.
Then, Sir, you think it wrong
In 'bus or cab to ride along
The streets,
Intent on rural treats
At Hampstead, Islington, or Turnham Green;
But have you never seen
The crowd
Of knights and dames, on palfreys fierce and proud,
That fill
Hyde Park o' Sundays? I don't wish to tease,
But, Sir, for riders such as these,
There ought, I think, to be a rider to your Bill.
No doubt it's very wrong, and shows but little nous,
To go a tea-drinking, and making merry
At th' Eagle, Rosemary Branch, or Yorkshire Stingo;—
Chalk Farm's as vile, by jingo!
There's something very black about White Conduit House.
Richmond is sad;
And Twickenham's as bad:
And Hampton Wick is very wicked—very.
But, Sir,—excuse the freedom of my pen—
D'ye think that they
Who spend the day
At Tattersall's, in laying wagers
On Derbys, Oaks, and Legers,
Are better men?
And then, the Clubs!—where gambling of all kinds,
And vices such as daylight never saw,
Are carried on behind cast-metal blinds—
For these, Sir, can't you frame some new Club Law?
Then, Sir, I know
You vote rat-killing low;
And wouldn't sit
For worlds in the Westminster Pit.
And so no doubt it is—extremely shocking;
But so is cocking!
And I have known full many a noble lord
(I have, upon my word,)
Fight cocks upon this day:
So pray,
Before for us poor folks you legislate,
Just try to quell this main-ia in the great.
Then music drives you mad:
And, Scotchman tho' you be,
I know
You wouldn't suffer even a Scotch fiddle;
And, as for "down the middle,"
And such-like tricks of Dame Terpsichore,
I've often heard you say they're quite as bad:
And that all persons merit a sound whipping
Who are found tripping.
(Àpropos—
How you'd be shock'd in France,
To see, Sir, a whole country dance!)
Mind! I don't say but that all this is wrong:
But is it worse, Sir, than the Sunday song
Of Grisi, Albertazzi, Betts, Rubini,
Lablache, or Tamburini?
And would it not be better first to wipe out
This sin among the high and mighty of the State,
Before you put the poor man's pipe out?
For my part, I think Vivi tu
As wicked as All round my hat—don't you?
And really I don't know
How you can stop Jim Crow,
And let the rich
Carry their concerts, Sir, to such a concert pitch.
And, if, Sir, I may speak
My mind, your plan to gag our week
(Tho' done, perhaps, with very best intention)
Is but a weak invention.
Besides, Sir, here's a poser,—
At least to me it seems a closer,
And shows a shocking lack of legislative skill—
If nothing, Sir, 's to work from Saturdays to Mondays,
Pray how's your Bill
To work on Sundays?