THE STAG, THE BULL, AND THE BEAR.
(A Railway Fable.)
THE STAG, THE BULL, AND THE BEAR.
A RAILWAY FABLE.
A Stag there was—as I've heard tell,
Who in an attic us'd to dwell,
Or rather—to use a fitter phrase—
Who in an attic us'd to graze;
And being blest, like many I know,
With little Conscience, and less Rhino,
Took to that frailest of all frail ways,
And wrote for shares in all the Railways;
Applied, without the least compunction,
For Seventy five in each new "Junction,"
And gen'rally—the more's the pity—
Got thirty shares from each Committee,
Whereof though it for sale was not meant,
He sold the Letter of Allotment.
But this he did, forsooth, because it
Said something rude about Deposit.
Now he'd applied, and—what was better—
This Stag had just receiv'd a letter,
Allotting him some shares, then far
Above the Railway Zero—"par."
"How kind of them," says he, "to gi'e me 'em,
Since they're at such a whacking premium!
'Tis to my soul 'a flatt'ring unction,'
Oh! Good St. James' and St. Giles' Junction."
And then the Stag went cap'ring down,
Like many another "buck on town,"
To where "the common herd" resort,
The stony field hight Capel Court,
And where the half-starved hinds are seen,
Trying to nibble all the "Green."
But soon to this fam'd cervine quarter
There came a Bull intent on slaughter,
And finding that the Stag I tell of
Had got some shares which were thought well of,
The Bull began to run them down,
And swore they weren't worth half-a-crown;
He call'd it all the worst of names,
This Junction of St. Giles and James;
And thus—these Bulls have so much art with 'em—
At last he got the Stag to part with 'em.
For 'tis with these same Bulls on 'Change
As 'tis with those that meadows range;
To both alike this rule applies,
What they run after's sure to rise.
Then, wand'ring from his gloomy lair,
In Copthall Court, there came a Bear;
One of that curs'd unfriendly race
Who crush whatever they embrace;
Whose grip is such, whate'er they maul
Is generally sure to fall.
And, when he heard the Stag declare
He'd parted with his ev'ry share,
He vow'd the Bull had sorely treated him,
Nay—more he'd say—the Bull had cheated him.
It was the noblest of all schemes,
This Junction of St. Giles and Jeames!
However, as he hated knavery,
To do him an especial favour, he
Would let the Stag have thirty more,
At what he sold the others for;
The Stag of gratitude discourséd,
And took 'em on the terms aforesaid.
Now all this kindness of the Bear
Was nothing but a "ruse-de-guerre;"
For no one knew so well as Bruin
To hold the Shares was perfect ruin;
The whole affair was but a swindle,
And down to discount soon would dwindle.
And, truth to say, the Bear was right,
The Panic came, like Lillywhite,
That terror of the Lords, and bowl'd out
Ev'ry man Jack who hadn't sold out;
So that there was on "settling day,"
The Devil and the Bear to pay.
"But," says the Stag, "that cunning buffer,
The Bull, will be the chap to suffer;
So in a cab to him I'll dash up,
And get my taurine friend to cash up."
But when he gets to Mr. Taurus's,
Pasted upon the outer door, he sees
A card with these words written over,
"Gone to Boulogne viâ Dover."
Now as the Bull had run away,
Unable for the shares to pay,
'Twas clear, as he'd no cash to spare,
The Stag then couldn't pay the Bear;
So when the Bear went for his due,
The Stag had gone to Boulogne too.
And, since the Stag had cut and run,
'Twas plain the Bear could pay no one;
So those to whom he money ow'd,
When they sought out the brute's abode,
Found that the Bear, or him they call so,
Had cut and run to Boulogne also.
Pursue the paths of Virtue, and such stale ways,
And don't never have nothing to do with none of those bothering Railways.
JOHN BULL AMONG THE LILLIPUTIANS.
MEETING OF THE DWARFS.
A meeting of the real bipeds, or little human beings who run about upon two
feet, was held at the Lilliputian Warehouse, in New Street, Covent Garden, to
move an address of thanks to Her Majesty, for her liberal patronage of the least
of the Rational Animals.
General Tom Thumb, L.S.D., was unanimously voted to the Child's Chair,
and the business of the Meeting having been opened by the Small Germans.
The Substance and the Shadow.
The General rose—a few inches—to address his brother Homuncules. He
said they had met to offer up an act of gratitude from the
Shortest men to the Highest Personage in the Realm—to
her who had refused to patronize everything great, and had
stooped to take them by the hand—to her who had originally
given them that lift, which had caused them—short as
they were—to be looked up to by—Lovely Woman. And
he would be happy to favour the company with "God Save
the Queen," gratis.
The English Tom Thumb here rose to rebut the
General's assertions, and was proceeding to complain of the
want of patronage offered to native insignificance, when he
was carried out.
The Highland Dwarfs, in a Scotch accent as broad as
their size would admit, said, "a' the Gen'ral had drapt was
unco' true." When they left the Land o' Cakes they could
hardly raise a Bawbee among them, and now they could put down 1000l. any day.
The Boshie Men, or Pigmy Race, through their interpreter, stated, they
were happy to find that, though the Dwarfs had come over to England little by
little, they now formed so large a body.
Don Francisco Hidalgo said, "Dat as el smallest man in el vorld, he objec
to el proceed; for he never meet vith el couragement el dam Dom Dum
speak of."
The little Men here got to very high words, and the meeting broke up in
confusion.
NAPOLEON'S ADIEU D'EGYPTIAN HALL.
PHLARUPPE!
AN OSSIANIC POEM.
DUAN THE FIRST.
This poem is addressed to the Maid of "the Rainbow" (in Fleet Street), where
Ossian is enjoying his Whisky and Cigar. The Phlaruppe here spoken of is
the same as the Aquævadius mentioned so frequently in Police History, and who
in the year '40 headed an expedition against the Knockers of Cockaigne, and
was repulsed by "the force" under the command of Rowan, the chief of Scotland
(Yard), though not until Phlaruppe had routed several of his "Divisions." Tradition
assigns the date of this event to the year '42, but on searching the pages of
the historian Hodder, we find no mention made of the circumstance in his valuable
work entitled, "Sketches of Life and Character taken at Bow Street."
Bring, daughter of the Rainbow! bring me the pen of steel! The mountain-dew
sparkles in Ossian's brain, and it is brilliant with song. As is the black reviver
to the garment whose seams are white with age, so is the cream of the valley
to the seedy soul of the bard. It brings back the freshness of youth.
A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!
The draught of the waters of Kinahan wakens the memory of the past. The
odour of thy weeds, mild Lopez! is pleasant in Ossian's nose. Like the brow of
Ben-Primrose, his head is veiled in clouds. Listen, thou daughter of the Rainbow!
to the deeds of the superior classes.
A tale of high life!
Fair is thy Garden, O Covent! Green are its paths with the leaves of the cabbage.
There the cauliflower of Fulham rests its white head, and the pine of
Jamaica perfumes the breeze. The daughters of Erin are there laden with Pippins
of gold. Near are the halls of Evans. Music is heard in them by night. The
morning dawns in song. The voice of Llewellyn of Wales gladdens the feast! and
Sloman, the son of Israel, pours forth his numbers, apt as the bard of Moses. Glad
are the halls of Evans! It is the abode of Joy!
Wilt thou not listen, bright maid of the Rainbow! to the voice of Ossian? My
soul is bursting with song. The collars of my Corazza droop like the ears of the
Greyhound, and my eye in a fine frenzy rolls. Thus the mighty Bunn appears
when he dreams that he dwells in marble halls. Dost thou not behold, bright maid!
the head of a lion in Ossian's hand? A ring of iron depends from its mouth, and
its face wears a look of rage. That head the noble Phlaruppe, Lord of Belgravia,
tore away. Phlaruppe tore it away by the strength of his arm. Listen,
then, daughter of the Rainbow! to the tale of high life! The deeds of the superior
classes!
What sound is that kisses the ear? Across thy Garden, sweet Covent! it comes
dancing along the breeze. Can it be the song of the lark climbing the sky? But
the lark wakes not the night with his notes; and bright burns the gas in the lamp
of the Tavistock. 'Tis the voice of Von Joel, the toothless, gladdening the halls of
Evans. Of Evans, the son of Thespis.
The Thespian son sits in his hall of state. The feast is spread around. The
strong waters of Hodges and Betts sparkle on the board. A thousand Havannahs
perfume the air. A thousand glittering tankards foam with the nectar of Barclay.
There is the ripe fruit of Erin, and the rabbit of Wales is there.
Who comes from the Saloons of the West, with his warriors around him? He
smokes the Dodeen of peace. His face glows with the juice of the Gooseberry. His
cheeks are as red as the garments of the bearers of letters on the festival of May?
Who is it but the noble Phlaruppe, the Lord of Belgravia? In his train is Sutton
the Sambo; and Burke, the hard of hearing, attends him. Mighty in battle are
they.
The Lord of Belgravia graces the board: the Bards hail his presence with a
song. He quaffs the brown stout of Dublin. The night reels away in revelry.
The morning peeps in at the casement; and Phlaruppe, the Lord of Belgravia, is
glorious with Guinness's.
A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!
DUAN THE SECOND.
Grey grows the air with the Day's young light. With the carmine of Morning
the cheek of Heaven is rouged. The Camphine lamp of the Moon has gone out;
and turned off is the Gas of the Stars. Yawning the tired Policeman crawls on
his rounds.
Hushed are the halls of Evans.
Where art thou, Belgravia's Lord? Thou pride of the West, where art thou?
Lo! he comes; but his steps are unsteady with Beer. On the sinewy arms of the
dark-skinned Sutton, and Burke, surnamed the Deaf, he leans. From them he
bursts of a sudden, like the cork from the Waters of Soda. The head of a lion on
the gates of Gliddon, the chief of the Divan, frowns on the valiant Phlaruppe.
Dauntless as the brute-taming Van Amburgh, he grapples with the iron beast.
He sounds the "fake away" of Belgravia. One potent wrench of his arm and the
head of the forest king hangs drooping from Phlaruppe's hand. Knockerless are
the gates of Gliddon! Of its lion the divan is bereft!
The lynx-eyed C 16 beheld the wrong. His dander arose. He drew his staff
in vengeance. He seized the noble Phlaruppe. Sutton, the heavy-handed son
of Africa, raised his arm. His white teeth grinned defiance on the blue son of
Peel. Into the murky waters of the kennel he hurled the pride of the yard of
Scotland. His blood crimsoned the flags. Groaning for help, he sprang the
rattle of war.
Like rockets at Vauxhall the azure force of Rowan rushed up. Their hands
grasped the staff of power. Phlaruppe heard the tramp of their Wellingtons. He
sounded the Lullalietee of battle. He gathered his warriors around him. Firm
as the cement of Pouloo they stood. As a torrent from a shower-bath poured the
stiff-necked sons of Peel upon the foe.
As the cats of Kilkenny they fight. Like the shop of the maker of trunks rings
the street with the blows. Stained is the earth with the claret of life.
Battle of the Garden of Covent, why should Ossian, like Robins, the chief of
Garraway's, pen the catalogue of thy wounds? Thou art with the son of Kean, a
calamity of the past.
The force of the Yard of Scotland overcame!
On the stretcher of Ignominy, Phlaruppe, the Lord of Belgravia, was laid!
DUAN THE THIRD.
In the cell of the Station, Phlaruppe hiccups out the Morn. The benches of
wood pillow his burning head. He sighs for a draught of the sparkling Waters of
Carrara, or a goblet of the bubbling Powders of Seidilitz. But the ice of the Lake
of Wenham is not more cold than the hearts of his victors. In the cell of the
Station, Phlaruppe hiccups out the Morn.
On the throne of Justice the even-handed Twyford sits. Before him Phlaruppe,
Belgravia's hope, is dragged. He quails, for the voice of the Judge is severe as
Hicks the lusty-lunged Son of the Surrey. And lo! to the terrors of Brixton's wheel
an alms-seeking child of want he condemns. What then shall be the doom of
Phlaruppe?
But Phlaruppe is the Lord of Belgravia. In his presence the heart of Twyford,
the even-handed, grows soft as the Asphalte of Claridge before the Sun in the
days of the Dogs. With the milk of human kindness the veins of his bosom are
filled. Pity touches his heart-strings; and his tone with compassion is soft as the
Piccolo of Jullien, the Emperor of all the Polkas.
But why, Maid of the Rainbow, should Ossian, like a penny-a-liner, recite the
fine that Phlaruppe paid to his Queen; or tell how the generous Twyford, for a
crown, forgave him who tore the Lion's head from Gliddon's halls?
A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!
The Carrara Water is found very efficacious in cases of Heart-burn.
Oh! that dreadful British Brandy!
It is strongly recommended in cases of foul tongue.
AN ANACREONTIC:
IN PRAISE OF CARRARA WATER.
Come, let us quaff the Wine of Moet!
Come, let us sing like Moses' Poet!
To thee and to thy sparkling daughter,
Carrara's copper-cooling Water!
Maugham! come let us sing of thee,
St. Swithin of Sobriety!
Sweet, after drinking too much wine,
Kind Cockle! are those pills of thine:
Or when the bowl has drown'd the wits,
Sweet are thy Powders—Seidilitz!
Or seedy with the dew of Mountains,
The water's sweet from Soda's fountains.
Yes! sweet are these—but sweeter far are
Thy sparkling Waters—O Carrara!
And Maugham! thy fame doth far outstep
The fame of Cockle—fame of Schweppe.
So when I burn with too much 'toddy,'
Carrara! thou shalt cool my body;
Yes! then I'll seek that Water's aid,
That's from Carrara marble made:
And as I drain it from the chalice,
I'll dream I drink some melted palace;
Or quaff some Venus in solution,
Of fam'd Canova's execution;
Or fancy, as the draught decreases,
I'm swallowing bottled chimney-pieces.
Carrara! thy delicious fluid
To me's the loveliest liquor brewéd;
My throbbing brain grows calm and placid.
Whene'er I quaff thee—sweet Antacid!
Thine is the gift of being able
To cure "the excesses of the table,"
And all the ills that thence attack us,
Thou brightest, healthiest child of Bacchus
For when I've drunk too much Glenlivat,
And my head is splitting with it,
Carrara! thou can'st ease my pain,
And fit my soul to drink again.
"MY WIFE IS A WOMAN OF MIND."
THE WOMAN OF MIND.
My wife is a woman of mind,
And Deville, who examined her bumps,
Vow'd that never were found in a woman
Such large intellectual lumps.
"Ideality" big as an egg,
With "Causality"—great—was combined;
He charg'd me ten shillings, and said,
"Sir, your wife is a woman of mind."
She's too clever to care how she looks,
And will horrid blue spectacles wear,
Not because she supposes they give her
A fine intellectual air;
No! she pays no regard to appearance,
And combs all her front hair behind,
Not because she is proud of her forehead,
But because she's a woman of mind.
She makes me a bushel of verses,
But never a pudding or tart,
If I hint I should like one, she vows
I'm an animal merely at heart;
Though I've notic'd she spurns not the pastry,
Whene'er at a friend's we have din'd,
And has always had two plates of pudding,
Such plates! for a woman of mind.
Not a stitch does she do but a distich,
Mends her pen too instead of my clothes;
I haven't a shirt with a button,
Nor a stocking that's sound at the toes;
If I ask her to darn me a pair,
She replies she has work more refined:
Besides, to be seen darning stockings!
Is it fit for a woman of mind?
The children are squalling all day,
For they're left to the care of a maid;
My wife can't attend to "the units,"
"The millions" are wanting her aid.
And it's vulgar to care for one's offspring—
The mere brute has a love of its kind—
But she loves the whole human fam'ly,
For she is a woman of mind.
Every thing is an inch thick in dust,
And the servants do just as they please;
The ceilings are cover'd with cobwebs,
The beds are all swarming with fleas;
The windows have never been clean'd,
And as black as your hat is each blind;
But my wife's nobler things to attend to,
For she is a woman of mind.
The Nurse steals the tea and the sugar,
The Cook sells the candles as grease,
And gives all the cold meat away
To her lover, who's in the Police.
When I hint that the housekeeping's heavy,
And hard is the money to find,
"Money's vile filthy dross!" she declares,
And unworthy a woman of mind.
Whene'er she goes out to a dance,
She refuses to join in the measure,
For dancing she can't but regard
As an unintellectual pleasure:
So she gives herself up to enjoyments
Of a more philosophical kind,
And picks all the people to pieces,
Like a regular woman of mind.
She speaks of her favourite authors
In terms far from pleasant to hear;
"Charles Dickens," she vows, "is a darling,"
"And Bulwer," she says, "is a dear;"
"Douglas Jerrold," with her "is an angel,"
And I'm an "illiterate hind,"
Upon whom her fine intellect's wasted;
I'm not fit for a woman of mind.
She goes not to Church on a Sunday,
Church is all very well in its way,
But she is too highly inform'd
Not to know all the parson can say;
It does well enough for the servants,
And was for poor people design'd;
But bless you! it's no good to her,
For she is a woman of mind.
Old Father St. Swithin, the Gentleman who presides over the Cat and Dog Days.
A Grand Gala at Vauxhall, under the Patronage of St. Swithin
THE CLOUD.
(Another Version of Shelley's partial view of the subject.)
I bring cats and dogs, and November fogs,
For the folks of Cockney land;
And I brew the flood of slush and mud
In Fleet Street and the Strand.
From my watery bed spring colds in the head,
And highly inflam'd sore-throats;
And I'm the Mama
[7] of the bad Catarrh,
And the Mother of Waterproof Coats.
I gave birth to Goloshes and Macintoshes,
The clog, the cork sole, and the patten;
And I act as wet Nus to each Omnibus,
For 'tis on my moisture they fatten.
I come down pretty thick at every Pic Nic,
And throw my cold water upon it;
And delight at each Fête that is called a Champêtre,
To spoil every new silk bonnet;
I'm more kind to each Jarvey than was Wittle Harvey,
When he was Commiss'oner of Stamps;
I'm the foe of Vauxhall's Grand Fancy Dress Balls,
Where I love to extinguish the Lamps;
And whenever a fellow leaves at home his Umbrella,
Oh Lord! how I chuckle and grin!
For then you may warrant I'll come down in a torrent,
And soak the poor wretch to the skin.
JUPITER AND THE MOTHER.
AN IDYLL.
At the altar of Jupiter knelt a poor woman. She was about to
become a Mother, and thus she invoked the God:—
"Oh Jupiter! King of the Heavens! and Ruler of the Earth!
grant that the dear burthen which I now bear may be a Stranger
to the cares of Life! Vouchsafe unto it such gifts that it may be
the most admired of all thy Children,—the richest—the happiest
of Men. Oh Jupiter! King of the Heavens! and Ruler of the
Earth! hear me!"
She spoke, and Mercury, the winged messenger of Jove, stood
before her.
"Mortal!" said he, "return with Joy to thy hearth! He who
wieldeth the sceptre of Fate hath heard thy petition; and the
Child shall be as thou hast asked."
In time the Mother bore a Son. His form rivalled that of the
boy-god Cupid. And she rejoiced to think he was the blest of
Jupiter.
A year passed on, and the proud Mother saw the Infant bud
blossom into the Child.
But the second year came and went, and the Boy increased not
in Stature.
The third year stole away, and still the little thing grew not.
The fourth—the fifth—the sixth rolled by, and yet the Child
remained in figure as at the end of the first.
Albeit the Mother murmured not, for she remembered the
promise of him who wieldeth the sceptre of Fate, and hoped in
patience.
But when twelve summers had gone, and the anxious Matron
beheld her Boy still a Babe in form though a Youth in years,
Hope and Patience left her; and thus she complained:—
"Oh Jupiter! Jupiter! have the promises of the Gods become
as those of Men? Didst thou not in thy bounty vouchsafe unto
me a Boy that should be the most admired of all thy Children?
And what hast thou sent me? A little thing to whom even the
shape of Manhood is denied! and at whose stunted figure the
world gapes with pitying wonder. Oh Jupiter! Jupiter! for what
mysterious good hast thou thus visited me?"
The cloud-compelling Jove heard the Mother's murmurs and
thus from on high rebuked her:—
| BORN A GENIUS |
AND |
BORN A DWARF. |
"Why, Child of Clay! dost thou question the goodness of the
Gods? Thy petition was heard, and has been granted. What
more wouldst thou have had? Didst thou not beseech me that
thy Boy should be the richest and happiest of Men?"
"I did, Great Jove!" replied the trembling Mother; "but thou,
in thy strange bounty, hast given to me a Child with limbs too
small and weak to earn even the scantiest subsistence; and whose
wretched deformity must make his life a burthen to him and me."
"And what, blind Mortal! wouldst thou that I had done?"
exclaimed the God.
"Oh that thou hadst blest him with a form of Power, and a mind
of Genius!" cried the heavy-hearted parent; "then would Wealth
and Joy have gladdened his days."
"Fool that thou art!" said the Sovereign of the Skies; "listen
and learn how I have blest, and thou wouldst have curst, thy
Child! Had I conferred on him the Genius thou sighest after he
would have felt but Want and Neglect in the world. Had I quickened
him with a sense of the Beautiful, his Life would have been a
Misery—his Death a Crime. For know that Mind alone can
sympathize with Mind; and mindless Man enriches those who
minister rather to the luxury of his Senses than to the refinement
of his Intellect."
"Oh, all-wise Jove!" exclaimed the abashed Mother.
"See how thou wouldst have beggared thy Boy with Genius,"
continued the Thunderer. "And now listen how I have enriched
him with Deformity. He shall go forth a wonder to the staring
and senseless world. Monarchs shall smile upon him, and rejoice to
gird his neck with precious Jewels. He shall be the beloved of
Matrons, and the fondling of Damsels. Crowds shall flock to behold
him, heaping his little lap with countless riches and costly
gifts. His car shall be drawn through the public ways in triumph;
and he—the stunted dwarf—shall play the Giant Emperor among
men. Thank thou, then, the Gods, oh Woman! whose bounty has
given thee a Dwarf, and not a Genius for thy Child."
Thus spake the mighty Jove, and the Mother in gratitude cried
out:—
"Oh, Jupiter! King of the Heavens, and Ruler of the Earth!
I thank thee! for now I see thou hast, indeed, vouchsafed that my
Boy shall be the most admired of all thy Children—the richest—the
happiest of Men."
Perrot teaching the Gods and Goddesses how to dance.
Minerva, as she did appear at the Italian Opera.
Minerva, as she ought to have appeared at the Italian Opera.
Neptune, as he probably will appear at the Italian Opera.
A MONO-RHYME.
Oh, Monsieur Perrot! oh, Monsieur Perrot!
Whatever on earth could have made you do so?
Put the Judgment of Paris all into dumb-show!
Bring the Gods and the Goddesses down from en haut!
Paris—Mercury—Venus—Minerva—Juno—
To trip "on the light fantastic toe!"
For who ever heard of a Fandango—
A Gavotte—a Cotillion—a Bolero—
Balancez—avancez—chaine des dames—dos-à-dos,
Or indeed any pas (excepting a "faux")
Perform'd by a Goddess, I'd like to know?
Whate'er in the name, too, of Lemprière and Co.,
Could have made it come into your head to bestow
On the Goddess of Wisdom, so comme il faut,
And who Keightley informs us was "chaste as snow,"
A petticoat scarcely, Sir, reaching below
The knees of the lady—and looking as though
'Twas a kilt of book-muslin or calico!
Whereas every classical cameo
Assures us she usen't her legs to show—
Perhaps they were bandy and form'd like a bow—
Or her ankles were gummy—but whether or no
Sure the Goddess half-naked objected to go.
Now it wouldn't have been such a dreadful blow,
And to Mamselle Minerva much more à propos,
Had you comb'd back the hair of the Virago—
Dress'd it à la Chinoise 'stead of en Bandeau—
While a pair of "blue specs" would have served to throw
Round the Goddess of Wisdom a learned halo!
But short Petticoats surely are rather de trop
For the Sapient Minerva and Stately Juno!!
Then Oh, Mister Lumley! Oh, Monsieur Perrot!
And Oh, Lucille Grahn! and Oh, Cerito!
Whatever on earth could have made you do so?
The Gods and Goddesses behind the Scenes at the Italian Opera.
SHAM IBRAHIM,
or the Pacha at Vauxhall.
A LAY OF MODERN ENGLAND
OR, IBRAHIM PACHA AT VAUXHALL.
Great Ibrahim of Egypt has promised the Lessee
The Masquerade at Vauxhall he'll go in State to see;
To Allah he has vowed it—to Allah and the Clown,
That in his royal Glass-Coach he will in State go down.
It's posted in all Quarters—it's stuck up in all Parts,
It's carried about by Boardmen and advertising Carts;
It is in every paper—it is on every wall,
That Ibrahim of Egypt is going to Vauxhall.
To-night the Clerks of London shall "Merry Monarchs" be;
To-night each Linendraper shall get his Captaincy;
The Tailors Metropolitan to-night shall strut as Greeks,
And Jews for Don Giovannis shall rouge their sallow cheeks.
But there are six young Doctors who dearly love a Laugh,
One is disguised as Ibrahim, the others as his staff;
They've hired a seedy Glass-Coach—they've Beards and Caps and All,
And as Ibrahim of Egypt they're going to Vauxhall.
And now they leave the Borough with many a loud Huzzā;
Drive on! drive on! to Vauxhall—On to the Bal Masqué!
On! shout the six young Doctors, and, as the crowd Hurrah,
They laugh to find they're taken for Ibrahim Pacha.
In swarms the Masqueraders are whirling to the Doors,
Of Sailors there are Hundreds—of Soldiers there are Scores,
And lots of German Students who nought of German know,
And not a few Postillions who're not from Lonjumeau.
And many illegal Lawyers with borrow'd Wigs and Gowns,
And lively Undertakers—and melancholy Clowns,
And Debardeurs and Tomboys—and many a Bow-bell Swain,
And dressed as "Heeland Lassies," the Lasses of Cockaigne.
From Eastward and from Westward the Masks are pouring there,
The Nobbish and the Snobbish from Mile End and May Fair;
They pour from many a Mess-room—and many a Second Floor,
They pour from Swan and Edgar's—from Lincoln's Inn they pour.
But now Inspector Higgins rides up the way to clear;
"Stand back! stand back! you fellows, great Ibrahim is near!"
And then, far in the distance, the welkin's heard to ring,
With "Long live Ibrahim Pacha! Long life to Egypt's King!"
And Nearer still and Nearer the seedy Glass-Coach steals,
And Louder grows and Louder the rumbling of its Wheels,
And Plainly and more Plainly is heard the People's din,
But Nothing still—no Nothing does the Pacha do but Grin.
For Clearly, very Clearly, the Ibrahim they cheer'd,
Was only a Sham Ibrahim with only a Sham Beard,
And Truly, very Truly, the Pacha's present Suite
Came not from Mighty Egypt, but from Great Tooley Street.
Now the Lessee of the Gardens receives them at the Gates,
And thinks the six young Doctors six Eastern Potentates,
And trusts His Royal Highness some Wine will deign to quaff,
Whereat His Royal Highness winks at His Royal Staff.
But the Lessee's looks are angry, and the Lessee's Brows depressed,
A Jest he loves most dearly, but this is past a Jest;
For he hears another Party with Beards and Caps and All,
As Ibrahim of Egypt has come unto Vauxhall.
Then to the Great Sham Ibrahim he talks extremely Large,
Assures his Sham Royal Highness he'll give the Rogues in charge,
Whereon the Sham Interpreter swears t'other's come to Fleece,
And calls aloud for "Vengeance!" and louder for "Police!"
Off to Inspector Higgins the Lessee Flies forthwith;
"There'll be a row," says Ibrahim, "as sure as my name's Smith;
Though if it comes to Fighting, boys, I am a match for Three,
And I will fight like Bricks to-night if You will stand by Me."
Then outspake young O'Driscoll, one of the Staff was He,
"I'll fight for hours for Thee, by the pow'rs! and I will stand by Thee!"
And outspake "Charley" Smivens, and outspake t'other Three,
"We'll fight like mad for Thee, my Lad! and We'll all stand by Thee!"
Now down the Lessee rushes with Higgins to the Gates,
And vows he'll have the Pacha up before the Magistrates;
He calls His Royal Highness an Impostor and a cheat,
And tells Inspector Higgins to collar Him and Suite.
Cries Higgins, when he sees him—"This beats cock-fighting holler,
That there's the King of Egypt you're telling me to collar;
Yes, I'd take my affidavey, although you looks and starts,
That there's the King of Egypt what lodges at Mivart's!"
"That Ibr'im!" cries the Lessee, "then t'other's all a Flam,
But I'll bow in the Real One if you'll kick out the Sham;"
"I will! I will!" shouts Higgins, then with a small Array
Of gallant young Policemen he hurries to the Fray.
Young Smivens knock'd down Higgins into the gutter—smack!
O'Driscoll sent C 30 Whap! right upon his Back;
At two more of "the Body" Smith gave a potent Thrust,
And then C 6 and 7 lay groaning in the Dust.
But they've sent for more Policemen to come and keep the Peace,
And yonder from the Station march twenty more Police;
"Cut off! Cut off, O'Driscoll!" loud cried the Doctors all,
"Cut, Smith! Cut, Charley Smivens! Cut, over the Garden Wall."
Off ran both Smith and Smivens, and off O'Driscoll ran,
The other Three ran off too, pursued by man a Man,
And o'er the Wall they scrambled, and scrambled o'er the Ground,
Nor stopt till in the Borough they were All Safe and Sound.
And now, when of an Evening they want a hearty Laugh,
When they sit smoking "Dodeens," and drinking Half and Half,
And when they're getting Jolly they Love this Chant to squall,
Telling how as Ibrahim Pacha they went into Vauxhall.