THEATRICAL ALARM BELL.

To be recited by the Translator's Son.Away, fond dupes! who smit with sacred lore,Mosaic dreams in Genesis explore,Dote with Copernicus, or darkling strayWith Newton, Ptolemy, or Tycho Brahe:To you I sing not, for I sing of truth,Primæval systems, and creation's youth;Such as of old, with magic wisdom fraught,Inspired Lucretius to the Latians taught.I sing how casual bricks, in airy climb,Encounter'd casual horse-hair, casual lime;How rafters borne through wondering clouds elate,Kiss'd in their slope blue elemental slate,Clasp'd solid beams in chance-directed fury,And gave to birth our renovated Drury.Thee, son of Jove, whose sceptre was confessed,Where fair Œolia springs from Tethys' breast:Thence on Olympus 'mid Celestials placed,God of the winds, and Ether's boundless waste,Thee I invoke! Oh,puffmy bold design,Prompt the bright thought, and swell the harmonious line;Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspireWith Winsor's patent gas, or wind of fire,In whose pure blaze thy embryo form enroll'd,The dark enlightens, and enchafes the cold.But while I court thy gifts, be mine to shunThe deprecated prize Ulysses won;Who sailing homeward from thy breezy shore,The prison'd winds in skins of parchment bore:—Speeds the fleet bark, till o'er the billowy greenThe azure heights of Ithaca are seen;But while with favouring gales her way she wins,His curious comrades ope the mystic skins:When lo! the rescued winds, with boisterous sweep,Roar to the clouds, and lash the rocking deep;Heaves the smote vessel in the howling blast,Splits the stretch'd sail, and cracks the tottering mast.Launch'd on a plank, the buoyant hero ridesWhere ebon Afric stems the sable tides,While his duck'd comrades o'er the ocean fly,And sleep not in the whole skins they untie.So when to raise the wind some lawyer tries,Mysterious skins of parchment meet our eyes.On speed the smiling suit, "Pleas of our LordThe King" shine jetty on the wide record:Nods the prunella'd bar, attornies smile,And siren jurors flatter to beguile;Till stript—nonsuited—he is doom'd to tossIn legal shipwreck, and redeemless loss;Lucky, if, like Ulysses, he can keepHis head above the waters of the deep.Æolian monarch! Emperor of Puffs!We modern sailors dread not thy rebuffs;See to thy golden shore promiscuous comeQuacks for the lame, the blind, the deaf, the dumb;Fools are their bankers—a prolific line,And every mortal malady's a mine.Each sly Sangrado, with his poisonous pill,Flies to the printer's devil with his bill,Whose Midas touch can gild his asses' ears,And load a knave with folly's rich arrears.And lo! a second miracle is thine,For sloe-juiced water stands transform'd to wine.Where Day and Martin's patent blacking roll'd,Burst from the vase Pactolian streams of gold;Laugh the sly wizards glorying in their stealth,Quit the black art, and loll in lazy wealth.See Britain's Algerines, the Lottery fry,Win annual tribute by the annual lie.Aided by thee—but whither do I stray?Court, city, borough, own thy sovereign sway:An age of puffs the age of gold succeeds,And windy bubbles are the spawn it breeds.If such thy power, O hear the Muse's prayer!Swell thy loud lungs, and wave thy wings of air;Spread, viewless giant, all thy arms of mistLike windmill sails to bring the poet grist;As erst thy roaring son with eddying galeWhirl'd Orithyia from her native vale—So, while Lucretian wonders I rehearse,Augusta's sons shall patronize my verse.I sing of Atoms, whose creative brain,With eddying impulse, built new Drury Lane;Not to the labours of subservient man,To no young Wyatt appertains the plan;We mortals stalk, like horses in a mill,Impassive media of Atomic will;Ye stare! then truth's broad talisman discern—'Tis Demonstration speaks.—Attend and learn!From floating elements in chaos hurl'd,Self-form'd of atoms, sprang the infant world.No great First Cause inspired the happy plot,But all was matter, and no matter what.Atoms, attracted by some law occult,Settling in spheres, the globe was the result;Pure child of Chance, which still directs the ball,As rotatory atoms rise or fall.In ether launch'd, the peopled bubble floats,A mass of particles and confluent motes,So nicely pois'd, that if one atom flingsIts weight away, aloft the planet springs,And wings its course thro' realms of boundless space,Outstripping comets in eccentric race.Add but one atom more, it sinks outrightDown to the realms of Tartarus and night.What waters melt or scorching fires consume,In different forms their being reassume;Hence can no change arise, except in name,For weight and substance ever are the same.Thus with the flames that from old Drury rise,Its elements primæval sought the skies,There, pendulous to wait the happy hour,When new attractions should restore their power.So in this procreant theatre elate,Echoes unborn their future life await;Here embryo sounds in ether lie conceal'd,Like words in northern atmosphere congeal'd.Here many a fœtus laugh and half encoreClings to the roof, or creeps along the floor.By puffs concipient some in ether flit,And soar in bravos from the thundering pit;Some forth on ticket nights from tradesmen break,To mar the actor they design to make;While some this mortal life abortive miss,Crush'd by a groan, or strangled by a hiss.So, when "dog's-meat" re-echoes through the streets,Rush sympathetic dogs from their retreats,Beam with bright blaze their supplicating eyes,Sink their hind-legs, ascend their joyful cries;Each, wild with hope, and maddening to prevail,Points the pleased ear, and wags the expectant tail.Ye fallen bricks! in Drury's fire calcined,Since doom'd to slumber, couch'd upon the wind,Sweet was the hour, when tempted by your freaks,Congenial trowels smooth'd your yellow cheeks.Float dulcet serenades upon the ear,Bends every atom from its ruddy sphere,Twinkles each eye, and, peeping from its veil,Marks in the adverse crowd its destined male.The oblong beauties clap their hands of grit,And brick-dust titterings on the breezes flit;Then down they rush in amatory race,Their dusty bridegrooms eager to embrace.Some choose old lovers, some decide for new,But each, when fix'd, is to her station true.Thus various bricks are made as tastes invite,The red, the grey, the dingy, or the white.Perhaps some half-baked rover, frank and free,To alien beauty bends the lawless knee,But of unhallow'd fascinations sick,Soon quits his Cyprian for his married brick;The Dido atom calls and scolds in vain,No crisp Æneas soothes the widow's pain.So in Cheapside, what time Aurora peeps,A mingled noise of dustmen, milk, and sweeps,Falls on the housemaid's ear; amaz'd she stands,Then opes the door with cinder-sabled hands,And "matches" calls. The dustman, bubbled flat,Thinks 'tis for him, and doffs his fan-tail'd hat;The milkman, whom her second cries assail,With sudden sink, unyokes the clinking pail;Now louder grown, by turns she screams and weeps;Alas! her screaming only brings the sweeps.Sweeps but put out—she wants to raise a flame,And calls for matches, but 'tis still the same.Atoms and housemaids! mark the moral true,If once ye go astray, nomatchfor you!As atoms in one mass united mix,So bricks attraction feel for kindred bricks;Some in the cellar view, perchance, on high,Fair chimney chums on beds of mortar lie;Enamour'd of the sympathetic clod,Leaps the red bridegroom to the labourer's hod,And up the ladder bears the workman, taughtTo think he bears the bricks—mistaken thought!A proof behold—if near the top they findThe nymphs or broken corner'd, or unkind,Back to the bottom leaping with a bound,They bear their bleeding carriers to the ground.So legends tell, along the lofty hillPaced the twin heroes, gallant Jack and Jill;On trudged the Gemini to reach the railThat shields the well's top from the expectant pail,When ah! Jack falls; and, rolling in the rear,Jill feels the attraction of his kindred sphere;Head over heels begins his toppling track,Throws sympathetic somersets with Jack,And at the mountain's base, bobbs plump against him, whack!Ye living atoms, who unconscious sit,Jumbled by chance in gallery, box, and pit,For you no Peter opes the fabled door,No churlish Charon plies the shadowy oar;—Breathe but a space, and Boreas' casual sweepShall bear your scatter'd corses o'er the deep,To gorge the greedy elements, and mixWith water, marl, and clay, and stones and sticks;While, charged with fancied souls, sticks, stones and clay,Shall take your seats, and hiss or clap the play.O happy age! when convert Christians readNo sacred writings but the Pagan creed;O happy age! when spurning Newton's dreams,Our poet's sons recite Lucretian themes,Abjure the idle systems of their youth,And turn again to atoms and to truth.O happier still! when England's dauntless dames,Awed by no chaste alarms, no latent shames,The bard's fourth book unblushingly peruse,And learn the rampant lessons of the stews!All hail, Lucretius, renovated sage!Unfold the modest mystics of thy page;Return no more to thy sepulchral shelf,But live, kind bard,—that I may live myself!

To be recited by the Translator's Son.

Away, fond dupes! who smit with sacred lore,Mosaic dreams in Genesis explore,Dote with Copernicus, or darkling strayWith Newton, Ptolemy, or Tycho Brahe:To you I sing not, for I sing of truth,Primæval systems, and creation's youth;Such as of old, with magic wisdom fraught,Inspired Lucretius to the Latians taught.

Away, fond dupes! who smit with sacred lore,

Mosaic dreams in Genesis explore,

Dote with Copernicus, or darkling stray

With Newton, Ptolemy, or Tycho Brahe:

To you I sing not, for I sing of truth,

Primæval systems, and creation's youth;

Such as of old, with magic wisdom fraught,

Inspired Lucretius to the Latians taught.

I sing how casual bricks, in airy climb,Encounter'd casual horse-hair, casual lime;How rafters borne through wondering clouds elate,Kiss'd in their slope blue elemental slate,Clasp'd solid beams in chance-directed fury,And gave to birth our renovated Drury.Thee, son of Jove, whose sceptre was confessed,Where fair Œolia springs from Tethys' breast:Thence on Olympus 'mid Celestials placed,God of the winds, and Ether's boundless waste,Thee I invoke! Oh,puffmy bold design,Prompt the bright thought, and swell the harmonious line;Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspireWith Winsor's patent gas, or wind of fire,In whose pure blaze thy embryo form enroll'd,The dark enlightens, and enchafes the cold.

I sing how casual bricks, in airy climb,

Encounter'd casual horse-hair, casual lime;

How rafters borne through wondering clouds elate,

Kiss'd in their slope blue elemental slate,

Clasp'd solid beams in chance-directed fury,

And gave to birth our renovated Drury.

Thee, son of Jove, whose sceptre was confessed,

Where fair Œolia springs from Tethys' breast:

Thence on Olympus 'mid Celestials placed,

God of the winds, and Ether's boundless waste,

Thee I invoke! Oh,puffmy bold design,

Prompt the bright thought, and swell the harmonious line;

Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspire

With Winsor's patent gas, or wind of fire,

In whose pure blaze thy embryo form enroll'd,

The dark enlightens, and enchafes the cold.

But while I court thy gifts, be mine to shunThe deprecated prize Ulysses won;Who sailing homeward from thy breezy shore,The prison'd winds in skins of parchment bore:—Speeds the fleet bark, till o'er the billowy greenThe azure heights of Ithaca are seen;But while with favouring gales her way she wins,His curious comrades ope the mystic skins:When lo! the rescued winds, with boisterous sweep,Roar to the clouds, and lash the rocking deep;Heaves the smote vessel in the howling blast,Splits the stretch'd sail, and cracks the tottering mast.Launch'd on a plank, the buoyant hero ridesWhere ebon Afric stems the sable tides,While his duck'd comrades o'er the ocean fly,And sleep not in the whole skins they untie.

But while I court thy gifts, be mine to shun

The deprecated prize Ulysses won;

Who sailing homeward from thy breezy shore,

The prison'd winds in skins of parchment bore:—

Speeds the fleet bark, till o'er the billowy green

The azure heights of Ithaca are seen;

But while with favouring gales her way she wins,

His curious comrades ope the mystic skins:

When lo! the rescued winds, with boisterous sweep,

Roar to the clouds, and lash the rocking deep;

Heaves the smote vessel in the howling blast,

Splits the stretch'd sail, and cracks the tottering mast.

Launch'd on a plank, the buoyant hero rides

Where ebon Afric stems the sable tides,

While his duck'd comrades o'er the ocean fly,

And sleep not in the whole skins they untie.

So when to raise the wind some lawyer tries,Mysterious skins of parchment meet our eyes.On speed the smiling suit, "Pleas of our LordThe King" shine jetty on the wide record:Nods the prunella'd bar, attornies smile,And siren jurors flatter to beguile;Till stript—nonsuited—he is doom'd to tossIn legal shipwreck, and redeemless loss;Lucky, if, like Ulysses, he can keepHis head above the waters of the deep.

So when to raise the wind some lawyer tries,

Mysterious skins of parchment meet our eyes.

On speed the smiling suit, "Pleas of our Lord

The King" shine jetty on the wide record:

Nods the prunella'd bar, attornies smile,

And siren jurors flatter to beguile;

Till stript—nonsuited—he is doom'd to toss

In legal shipwreck, and redeemless loss;

Lucky, if, like Ulysses, he can keep

His head above the waters of the deep.

Æolian monarch! Emperor of Puffs!We modern sailors dread not thy rebuffs;See to thy golden shore promiscuous comeQuacks for the lame, the blind, the deaf, the dumb;Fools are their bankers—a prolific line,And every mortal malady's a mine.Each sly Sangrado, with his poisonous pill,Flies to the printer's devil with his bill,Whose Midas touch can gild his asses' ears,And load a knave with folly's rich arrears.And lo! a second miracle is thine,For sloe-juiced water stands transform'd to wine.Where Day and Martin's patent blacking roll'd,Burst from the vase Pactolian streams of gold;Laugh the sly wizards glorying in their stealth,Quit the black art, and loll in lazy wealth.See Britain's Algerines, the Lottery fry,Win annual tribute by the annual lie.Aided by thee—but whither do I stray?Court, city, borough, own thy sovereign sway:An age of puffs the age of gold succeeds,And windy bubbles are the spawn it breeds.

Æolian monarch! Emperor of Puffs!

We modern sailors dread not thy rebuffs;

See to thy golden shore promiscuous come

Quacks for the lame, the blind, the deaf, the dumb;

Fools are their bankers—a prolific line,

And every mortal malady's a mine.

Each sly Sangrado, with his poisonous pill,

Flies to the printer's devil with his bill,

Whose Midas touch can gild his asses' ears,

And load a knave with folly's rich arrears.

And lo! a second miracle is thine,

For sloe-juiced water stands transform'd to wine.

Where Day and Martin's patent blacking roll'd,

Burst from the vase Pactolian streams of gold;

Laugh the sly wizards glorying in their stealth,

Quit the black art, and loll in lazy wealth.

See Britain's Algerines, the Lottery fry,

Win annual tribute by the annual lie.

Aided by thee—but whither do I stray?

Court, city, borough, own thy sovereign sway:

An age of puffs the age of gold succeeds,

And windy bubbles are the spawn it breeds.

If such thy power, O hear the Muse's prayer!Swell thy loud lungs, and wave thy wings of air;Spread, viewless giant, all thy arms of mistLike windmill sails to bring the poet grist;As erst thy roaring son with eddying galeWhirl'd Orithyia from her native vale—So, while Lucretian wonders I rehearse,Augusta's sons shall patronize my verse.

If such thy power, O hear the Muse's prayer!

Swell thy loud lungs, and wave thy wings of air;

Spread, viewless giant, all thy arms of mist

Like windmill sails to bring the poet grist;

As erst thy roaring son with eddying gale

Whirl'd Orithyia from her native vale—

So, while Lucretian wonders I rehearse,

Augusta's sons shall patronize my verse.

I sing of Atoms, whose creative brain,With eddying impulse, built new Drury Lane;Not to the labours of subservient man,To no young Wyatt appertains the plan;We mortals stalk, like horses in a mill,Impassive media of Atomic will;Ye stare! then truth's broad talisman discern—'Tis Demonstration speaks.—Attend and learn!

I sing of Atoms, whose creative brain,

With eddying impulse, built new Drury Lane;

Not to the labours of subservient man,

To no young Wyatt appertains the plan;

We mortals stalk, like horses in a mill,

Impassive media of Atomic will;

Ye stare! then truth's broad talisman discern—

'Tis Demonstration speaks.—Attend and learn!

From floating elements in chaos hurl'd,Self-form'd of atoms, sprang the infant world.No great First Cause inspired the happy plot,But all was matter, and no matter what.Atoms, attracted by some law occult,Settling in spheres, the globe was the result;Pure child of Chance, which still directs the ball,As rotatory atoms rise or fall.In ether launch'd, the peopled bubble floats,A mass of particles and confluent motes,So nicely pois'd, that if one atom flingsIts weight away, aloft the planet springs,And wings its course thro' realms of boundless space,Outstripping comets in eccentric race.Add but one atom more, it sinks outrightDown to the realms of Tartarus and night.What waters melt or scorching fires consume,In different forms their being reassume;Hence can no change arise, except in name,For weight and substance ever are the same.

From floating elements in chaos hurl'd,

Self-form'd of atoms, sprang the infant world.

No great First Cause inspired the happy plot,

But all was matter, and no matter what.

Atoms, attracted by some law occult,

Settling in spheres, the globe was the result;

Pure child of Chance, which still directs the ball,

As rotatory atoms rise or fall.

In ether launch'd, the peopled bubble floats,

A mass of particles and confluent motes,

So nicely pois'd, that if one atom flings

Its weight away, aloft the planet springs,

And wings its course thro' realms of boundless space,

Outstripping comets in eccentric race.

Add but one atom more, it sinks outright

Down to the realms of Tartarus and night.

What waters melt or scorching fires consume,

In different forms their being reassume;

Hence can no change arise, except in name,

For weight and substance ever are the same.

Thus with the flames that from old Drury rise,Its elements primæval sought the skies,There, pendulous to wait the happy hour,When new attractions should restore their power.So in this procreant theatre elate,Echoes unborn their future life await;Here embryo sounds in ether lie conceal'd,Like words in northern atmosphere congeal'd.Here many a fœtus laugh and half encoreClings to the roof, or creeps along the floor.By puffs concipient some in ether flit,And soar in bravos from the thundering pit;Some forth on ticket nights from tradesmen break,To mar the actor they design to make;While some this mortal life abortive miss,Crush'd by a groan, or strangled by a hiss.So, when "dog's-meat" re-echoes through the streets,Rush sympathetic dogs from their retreats,Beam with bright blaze their supplicating eyes,Sink their hind-legs, ascend their joyful cries;Each, wild with hope, and maddening to prevail,Points the pleased ear, and wags the expectant tail.

Thus with the flames that from old Drury rise,

Its elements primæval sought the skies,

There, pendulous to wait the happy hour,

When new attractions should restore their power.

So in this procreant theatre elate,

Echoes unborn their future life await;

Here embryo sounds in ether lie conceal'd,

Like words in northern atmosphere congeal'd.

Here many a fœtus laugh and half encore

Clings to the roof, or creeps along the floor.

By puffs concipient some in ether flit,

And soar in bravos from the thundering pit;

Some forth on ticket nights from tradesmen break,

To mar the actor they design to make;

While some this mortal life abortive miss,

Crush'd by a groan, or strangled by a hiss.

So, when "dog's-meat" re-echoes through the streets,

Rush sympathetic dogs from their retreats,

Beam with bright blaze their supplicating eyes,

Sink their hind-legs, ascend their joyful cries;

Each, wild with hope, and maddening to prevail,

Points the pleased ear, and wags the expectant tail.

Ye fallen bricks! in Drury's fire calcined,Since doom'd to slumber, couch'd upon the wind,Sweet was the hour, when tempted by your freaks,Congenial trowels smooth'd your yellow cheeks.Float dulcet serenades upon the ear,Bends every atom from its ruddy sphere,Twinkles each eye, and, peeping from its veil,Marks in the adverse crowd its destined male.The oblong beauties clap their hands of grit,And brick-dust titterings on the breezes flit;Then down they rush in amatory race,Their dusty bridegrooms eager to embrace.Some choose old lovers, some decide for new,But each, when fix'd, is to her station true.Thus various bricks are made as tastes invite,The red, the grey, the dingy, or the white.

Ye fallen bricks! in Drury's fire calcined,

Since doom'd to slumber, couch'd upon the wind,

Sweet was the hour, when tempted by your freaks,

Congenial trowels smooth'd your yellow cheeks.

Float dulcet serenades upon the ear,

Bends every atom from its ruddy sphere,

Twinkles each eye, and, peeping from its veil,

Marks in the adverse crowd its destined male.

The oblong beauties clap their hands of grit,

And brick-dust titterings on the breezes flit;

Then down they rush in amatory race,

Their dusty bridegrooms eager to embrace.

Some choose old lovers, some decide for new,

But each, when fix'd, is to her station true.

Thus various bricks are made as tastes invite,

The red, the grey, the dingy, or the white.

Perhaps some half-baked rover, frank and free,To alien beauty bends the lawless knee,But of unhallow'd fascinations sick,Soon quits his Cyprian for his married brick;The Dido atom calls and scolds in vain,No crisp Æneas soothes the widow's pain.

Perhaps some half-baked rover, frank and free,

To alien beauty bends the lawless knee,

But of unhallow'd fascinations sick,

Soon quits his Cyprian for his married brick;

The Dido atom calls and scolds in vain,

No crisp Æneas soothes the widow's pain.

So in Cheapside, what time Aurora peeps,A mingled noise of dustmen, milk, and sweeps,Falls on the housemaid's ear; amaz'd she stands,Then opes the door with cinder-sabled hands,And "matches" calls. The dustman, bubbled flat,Thinks 'tis for him, and doffs his fan-tail'd hat;The milkman, whom her second cries assail,With sudden sink, unyokes the clinking pail;Now louder grown, by turns she screams and weeps;Alas! her screaming only brings the sweeps.Sweeps but put out—she wants to raise a flame,And calls for matches, but 'tis still the same.Atoms and housemaids! mark the moral true,If once ye go astray, nomatchfor you!

So in Cheapside, what time Aurora peeps,

A mingled noise of dustmen, milk, and sweeps,

Falls on the housemaid's ear; amaz'd she stands,

Then opes the door with cinder-sabled hands,

And "matches" calls. The dustman, bubbled flat,

Thinks 'tis for him, and doffs his fan-tail'd hat;

The milkman, whom her second cries assail,

With sudden sink, unyokes the clinking pail;

Now louder grown, by turns she screams and weeps;

Alas! her screaming only brings the sweeps.

Sweeps but put out—she wants to raise a flame,

And calls for matches, but 'tis still the same.

Atoms and housemaids! mark the moral true,

If once ye go astray, nomatchfor you!

As atoms in one mass united mix,So bricks attraction feel for kindred bricks;Some in the cellar view, perchance, on high,Fair chimney chums on beds of mortar lie;Enamour'd of the sympathetic clod,Leaps the red bridegroom to the labourer's hod,And up the ladder bears the workman, taughtTo think he bears the bricks—mistaken thought!A proof behold—if near the top they findThe nymphs or broken corner'd, or unkind,Back to the bottom leaping with a bound,They bear their bleeding carriers to the ground.

As atoms in one mass united mix,

So bricks attraction feel for kindred bricks;

Some in the cellar view, perchance, on high,

Fair chimney chums on beds of mortar lie;

Enamour'd of the sympathetic clod,

Leaps the red bridegroom to the labourer's hod,

And up the ladder bears the workman, taught

To think he bears the bricks—mistaken thought!

A proof behold—if near the top they find

The nymphs or broken corner'd, or unkind,

Back to the bottom leaping with a bound,

They bear their bleeding carriers to the ground.

So legends tell, along the lofty hillPaced the twin heroes, gallant Jack and Jill;On trudged the Gemini to reach the railThat shields the well's top from the expectant pail,When ah! Jack falls; and, rolling in the rear,Jill feels the attraction of his kindred sphere;Head over heels begins his toppling track,Throws sympathetic somersets with Jack,And at the mountain's base, bobbs plump against him, whack!

So legends tell, along the lofty hill

Paced the twin heroes, gallant Jack and Jill;

On trudged the Gemini to reach the rail

That shields the well's top from the expectant pail,

When ah! Jack falls; and, rolling in the rear,

Jill feels the attraction of his kindred sphere;

Head over heels begins his toppling track,

Throws sympathetic somersets with Jack,

And at the mountain's base, bobbs plump against him, whack!

Ye living atoms, who unconscious sit,Jumbled by chance in gallery, box, and pit,For you no Peter opes the fabled door,No churlish Charon plies the shadowy oar;—Breathe but a space, and Boreas' casual sweepShall bear your scatter'd corses o'er the deep,To gorge the greedy elements, and mixWith water, marl, and clay, and stones and sticks;While, charged with fancied souls, sticks, stones and clay,Shall take your seats, and hiss or clap the play.

Ye living atoms, who unconscious sit,

Jumbled by chance in gallery, box, and pit,

For you no Peter opes the fabled door,

No churlish Charon plies the shadowy oar;—

Breathe but a space, and Boreas' casual sweep

Shall bear your scatter'd corses o'er the deep,

To gorge the greedy elements, and mix

With water, marl, and clay, and stones and sticks;

While, charged with fancied souls, sticks, stones and clay,

Shall take your seats, and hiss or clap the play.

O happy age! when convert Christians readNo sacred writings but the Pagan creed;O happy age! when spurning Newton's dreams,Our poet's sons recite Lucretian themes,Abjure the idle systems of their youth,And turn again to atoms and to truth.O happier still! when England's dauntless dames,Awed by no chaste alarms, no latent shames,The bard's fourth book unblushingly peruse,And learn the rampant lessons of the stews!

O happy age! when convert Christians read

No sacred writings but the Pagan creed;

O happy age! when spurning Newton's dreams,

Our poet's sons recite Lucretian themes,

Abjure the idle systems of their youth,

And turn again to atoms and to truth.

O happier still! when England's dauntless dames,

Awed by no chaste alarms, no latent shames,

The bard's fourth book unblushingly peruse,

And learn the rampant lessons of the stews!

All hail, Lucretius, renovated sage!Unfold the modest mystics of thy page;Return no more to thy sepulchral shelf,But live, kind bard,—that I may live myself!

All hail, Lucretius, renovated sage!

Unfold the modest mystics of thy page;

Return no more to thy sepulchral shelf,

But live, kind bard,—that I may live myself!

By the Editor of the M. P.

Bounce, Jupiter, bounce!—O'Hara.

Ladies and Gentlemen,

As it is now the universally-admitted, and indeed pretty-generally-suspected aim of Mr. Whitbread and the infamous, bloodthirsty, and, in fact, illiberal faction to which he belongs, to burn to the ground this free and happy Protestant city, and establish himself in St. James's Palace, his fellow committee-men have thought it their duty to watch the principles of a theatre built under his auspices. The information they have received from undoubted authority, particularly from an old fruit-woman who had turned king's evidence, and whose name for obvious reasons we forbear to mention, though we have had it some weeks in our possession, has induced them to introduce various reforms: not such reforms as the vile faction clamour for, meaning thereby revolution, but such reforms as are necessary to preserve the glorious constitution of the only free, happy, and prosperous country now left upon the face of the earth. From the valuable and authentic source above alluded to, we have learnt that a sanguinary plot has been formed by some united Irishmen, combined with a gang of Luddites, and a special committee sent over by the Pope at the instigation of the beastly Corsican fiend, for destroying all the loyal part of the audience on the anniversary of that deeply-to-be-abhorred and highly-to-be-blamed stratagem, the gunpowder plot, which falls this year on Thursday, the 5th of November. The whole is under the direction of a delegated committee of O.P.'s, whose treasonable exploits at Covent Garden you all recollect, and all of whom would have been hung from the chandeliers at that time but for the mistaken lenity of government. At a given signal a well-known O.P. was to cry out from the gallery, "Nosey! Music!" whereupon all the O.P.'s were to produce from their inside pockets a long pair of shears, edged with felt to prevent their making any noise, manufactured expressly by a wretch at Birmingham, one of Mr. Brougham's evidences, and now in custody. With these they were to cut off the heads of all the loyal N.P.'s in the house, without distinction of sex or age. At the signal, similarly given, of "Throw him over," which it now appears always alluded to the overthrow of our never-sufficiently-enough-to-be-deeply-and-universally-to-be-venerated constitution, all the heads of the N.P.'s were to be thrown at the fiddlers, to prevent their appearing in evidence, or perhaps as a false and illiberal insinuation that they have noheads of their own. All that we know of the further designs of these incendiaries is, that they are by-a-great-deal-too-much too-horrible-to-be-mentioned.

The manager has acted with his usual promptitude on this trying occasion. He has contracted for 300 tons of gunpowder, which are at this moment placed in a small barrel under the pit, and a descendant of Guy Faux, assisted by Colonel Congreve, has undertaken to blow up the house, when necessary, in so novel and ingenious a manner, that every O.P. shall be annihilated, while not a whisker of the N.P.'s shall be singed. This strikingly displays the advantages of loyalty and attachment to government. Several other hints have been taken from the theatrical regulations of the not-a-bit-the-less-on-that-account-to-be-universally-execrated monster Bonaparte. A park of artillery, provided with chain-shot, is to be stationed on the stage, and play upon the audience in case of any indication of misplaced applause or popular discontent (which accounts for the large space between the curtain and the lamps); and the public will participate our satisfaction in learning that the indecorous custom of standing up with the hat on is to be abolished, as the Bow Street officers are provided with daggers, and have orders to stab all such persons to the heart, and send their bodies to Surgeons' Hall; gentlemen who cough are only to be slightly wounded. Fruit-women bawling "Bill of the Play" are to be forthwith shot, for which purpose soldiers will be stationed in the slips, and ball-cartridge is to be served out with the lemonade. If any of the spectators happen to sneeze or spit they are to be transported for life, and any person who is so tall as to prevent another seeing, is to be dragged out and sent on board the tender, or, by an instrument taken out of the pocket of Procrustes, to be forthwith cut shorter, either at the head or foot, according as his own convenience may dictate.

Thus, ladies and gentlemen, have the committee, through my medium, set forth the not-in-a-hurry-to-be-paralleled plan they have adopted for preserving order and decorum within the walls of their magnificent edifice. Nor have they, while attentive to their own concerns, by any means overlooked those of the cities of London and Westminster. Finding, on enumeration, that they have with a with-two-hands-and-one-tongue-to-be-applauded liberality, contracted for more gunpowder than they want, they have parted with the surplus to the mattock-carrying and hustings-hammering high bailiff of Westminster, who has, with his own shovel, dug a large hole in the front of the parish church of St. Paul, Covent Garden, that, upon the least symptom of ill-breeding in the mob at the general election, the whole of the market may be blown into the air. This, ladies and gentlemen, may at first make provisionsrise, but we pledge the credit of our theatre that they will soonfallagain, and people be suppliedas usual with vegetables in the in-general-strewed-with-cabbage-stalks-but-on-Saturday-night-lighted-up-with-lamps market of Covent Garden.

I should expatiate more largely on the other advantages of the glorious constitution of these by-the-whole-of-Europe-envied realms, but I am called away to take an account of the ladies, and other artificial flowers, at a fashionable rout, of which a full and particular account will hereafter appear. For the present, my fashionable intelligence is scanty, on account of the opening of Drury Lane; and the ladies and gentlemen who honour me with their attention, will not be surprised if they find nothing under my usual head!

By the Rev. G. C.

Nil intentatum nostri liquôre poetæ,Nec minimum meruère decus, vestigia GræcaAusi desesere, et celebrare domestica facta.—Horat.

Nil intentatum nostri liquôre poetæ,

Nec minimum meruère decus, vestigia Græca

Ausi desesere, et celebrare domestica facta.—Horat.

If the following poem should be fortunate enough to be selected for the opening Address, a few words of explanation may be deemed necessary, on my part, to avert invidious misrepresentation. The animadversion I have thought it right to make on the noise created by tuning the orchestra, will, I hope, give no lasting remorse to any of the gentlemen employed in the band. It is to be desired that they would keep their instruments ready tuned, and strike off at once. This would be an accommodation to many well-meaning persons who frequent the theatre, who not being blest with the ear of St. Cecilia, mistake the tuning for the overture, and think the latter concluded before it is begun.

"one fiddle willGive, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still—"

"one fiddle will

Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still—"

was originally written "one hautboy will," but having providentially been informed, when this poem was upon the point of being sent off, that there is but one hautboy in the band, I averted the storm of popular and managerial indignation from the head of its blower; as it now stands, "one fiddle" among many, the faulty individual will, I hope, escape detection. The story of the flying playbill is calculated to expose a practice, much too common, of pinning playbills to the cushions, insecurely, and frequently, I fear, not pinning them at all. If these lines save one playbill only from the fate I have recorded,I shall not deem my labour ill employed. The concluding episode of Patrick Jennings, glances at the boorish fashion of wearing the hat in the one-shilling gallery. Had Jennings thrust his between his feet at the commencement of the play, he might have leaned forward with impunity, and the catastrophe I relate would not have occurred. The line of handkerchiefs formed to enable him to recover his loss, is purposely so crossed in texture and materials, as to mislead the reader in respect of the real owner of any one of them. For, in the satirical view of life and manners, which I occasionally present, my clerical profession has taught me how extremely improper it would be by any allusion, however slight, to give any uneasiness, however trivial, to any individual, however foolish or wicked.G. C.

Interior of a theatre described.—Pit gradually fills.—The check-taker.—Pit full.—The orchestra tuned.—One fiddle rather dilatory.—Is reproved—and repents.—Evolutions of a playbill.—Its final settlement on the spikes.—The gods taken to task—and why.—Motley group of playgoers.—Holywell Street, St. Pancras.—Emanuel Jennings binds his son apprentice.—Not in London—and why.—Episode of the hat.

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks,Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean art,Start into light and make the lighter start;To see red Phœbus through the gallery paneTinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane,While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit,And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease,Distant or near, they settle where they please;But when the multitude contracts the span,And seats are rare, they settle where they can.Now the full benches, to late comers, doomNo room for standing, miscall'dstanding-room.Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,And bawling "Pit full," gives the check he takes;Yet onward still, the gathering numbers cram,Contending crowders shout the frequent damn,And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, jam.See to their desks Apollo's sons repair;Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair;In unison their various tones to tuneMurmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon;In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute,Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute,Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,Winds the French-horn, and twangs the tingling harp;Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in,Attunes to order the chaotic din.Now all seems hush'd—but no, one fiddle willGive, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still;Foil'd in his crash, the leader of the clanReproves with frowns the dilatory man;Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow,Nods a new signal, and away they go.Perchance, while pit and gallery cry, "Hats off,"And awed Consumption checks his chided cough,Some giggling daughter of the Queen of LoveDrops, reft of pin, her playbill from above;Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers;Till sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl;Who from his powder'd pate the intruder strikes,And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues?Who's that calls "Silence" with such leathern lungs?He who, in quest of quiet, "silence" hoots,Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.What various swains our motley walls contain!Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane;Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,Culls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;The lottery cormorant, the auction shark,The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;Boys who long linger at the gallery door,With pence twice five, they want but twopence more,Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,And sends them jumping up the gallery stairs.Critics we boast who ne'er their malice baulk,But talk their minds, we wish they'd mind their talk;Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live,Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary,That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary;And bucks with pockets empty as their pate,Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait,Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouseWith tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.Yet here, as elsewhere, chance can joy bestow,Where scowling fortune seem'd to threaten woe.John Richard William Alexander DwyerWas footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire;But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues,Emanuel Jennings polish'd Stubbs's shoes.Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boyUp as a corn-cutter, a safe employ;In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred(At number twenty-seven, it is said),Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head:He would have bound him to some shop in town,But with a premium he could not come down;Pat was the urchin's name, a red-hair'd youth,Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe,The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat,But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat;Down from the gallery the beaver flew,And spurn'd the one to settle in the two.How shall he act? Pay at the gallery doorTwo shillings for what cost, when new, but four?Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait,And gain his hat again at half-past eight?Now, while his fears anticipate a thief,John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief.""Thank you," cries Pat, "but one won't make a line;""Take mine," cried Wilson, and cried Stokes, "take mine."A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,Where Spitalfields with real India vies.Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue,Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.George Green below, with palpitating hand,Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band.Up soars the prize; the youth, with joy unfeign'd,Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd,While to the applauding galleries grateful PatMade a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat.

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,

Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks,

Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean art,

Start into light and make the lighter start;

To see red Phœbus through the gallery pane

Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane,

While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit,

And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.

At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease,Distant or near, they settle where they please;But when the multitude contracts the span,And seats are rare, they settle where they can.

At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease,

Distant or near, they settle where they please;

But when the multitude contracts the span,

And seats are rare, they settle where they can.

Now the full benches, to late comers, doomNo room for standing, miscall'dstanding-room.

Now the full benches, to late comers, doom

No room for standing, miscall'dstanding-room.

Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,And bawling "Pit full," gives the check he takes;Yet onward still, the gathering numbers cram,Contending crowders shout the frequent damn,And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, jam.

Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,

And bawling "Pit full," gives the check he takes;

Yet onward still, the gathering numbers cram,

Contending crowders shout the frequent damn,

And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, jam.

See to their desks Apollo's sons repair;Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair;In unison their various tones to tuneMurmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon;In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute,Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute,Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,Winds the French-horn, and twangs the tingling harp;Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in,Attunes to order the chaotic din.Now all seems hush'd—but no, one fiddle willGive, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still;Foil'd in his crash, the leader of the clanReproves with frowns the dilatory man;Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow,Nods a new signal, and away they go.Perchance, while pit and gallery cry, "Hats off,"And awed Consumption checks his chided cough,Some giggling daughter of the Queen of LoveDrops, reft of pin, her playbill from above;Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers;Till sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl;Who from his powder'd pate the intruder strikes,And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.

See to their desks Apollo's sons repair;

Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair;

In unison their various tones to tune

Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon;

In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute,

Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute,

Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,

Winds the French-horn, and twangs the tingling harp;

Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in,

Attunes to order the chaotic din.

Now all seems hush'd—but no, one fiddle will

Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still;

Foil'd in his crash, the leader of the clan

Reproves with frowns the dilatory man;

Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow,

Nods a new signal, and away they go.

Perchance, while pit and gallery cry, "Hats off,"

And awed Consumption checks his chided cough,

Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love

Drops, reft of pin, her playbill from above;

Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,

Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;

But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,

And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers;

Till sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,

It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl;

Who from his powder'd pate the intruder strikes,

And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.

Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues?Who's that calls "Silence" with such leathern lungs?He who, in quest of quiet, "silence" hoots,Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues?

Who's that calls "Silence" with such leathern lungs?

He who, in quest of quiet, "silence" hoots,

Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

What various swains our motley walls contain!Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane;Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,Culls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;The lottery cormorant, the auction shark,The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;Boys who long linger at the gallery door,With pence twice five, they want but twopence more,Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,And sends them jumping up the gallery stairs.

What various swains our motley walls contain!

Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane;

Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,

Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;

From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,

Culls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;

The lottery cormorant, the auction shark,

The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;

Boys who long linger at the gallery door,

With pence twice five, they want but twopence more,

Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,

And sends them jumping up the gallery stairs.

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice baulk,But talk their minds, we wish they'd mind their talk;Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live,Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary,That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary;And bucks with pockets empty as their pate,Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait,Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouseWith tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice baulk,

But talk their minds, we wish they'd mind their talk;

Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live,

Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;

Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary,

That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary;

And bucks with pockets empty as their pate,

Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait,

Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse

With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

Yet here, as elsewhere, chance can joy bestow,Where scowling fortune seem'd to threaten woe.

Yet here, as elsewhere, chance can joy bestow,

Where scowling fortune seem'd to threaten woe.

John Richard William Alexander DwyerWas footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire;But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues,Emanuel Jennings polish'd Stubbs's shoes.Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boyUp as a corn-cutter, a safe employ;In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred(At number twenty-seven, it is said),Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head:He would have bound him to some shop in town,But with a premium he could not come down;Pat was the urchin's name, a red-hair'd youth,Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.

John Richard William Alexander Dwyer

Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire;

But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues,

Emanuel Jennings polish'd Stubbs's shoes.

Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy

Up as a corn-cutter, a safe employ;

In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred

(At number twenty-seven, it is said),

Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head:

He would have bound him to some shop in town,

But with a premium he could not come down;

Pat was the urchin's name, a red-hair'd youth,

Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.

Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe,The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.

Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe,

The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat,But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat;Down from the gallery the beaver flew,And spurn'd the one to settle in the two.How shall he act? Pay at the gallery doorTwo shillings for what cost, when new, but four?Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait,And gain his hat again at half-past eight?Now, while his fears anticipate a thief,John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief.""Thank you," cries Pat, "but one won't make a line;""Take mine," cried Wilson, and cried Stokes, "take mine."A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,Where Spitalfields with real India vies.Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue,Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.George Green below, with palpitating hand,Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band.Up soars the prize; the youth, with joy unfeign'd,Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd,While to the applauding galleries grateful PatMade a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat.

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat,

But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat;

Down from the gallery the beaver flew,

And spurn'd the one to settle in the two.

How shall he act? Pay at the gallery door

Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four?

Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait,

And gain his hat again at half-past eight?

Now, while his fears anticipate a thief,

John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief."

"Thank you," cries Pat, "but one won't make a line;"

"Take mine," cried Wilson, and cried Stokes, "take mine."

A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,

Where Spitalfields with real India vies.

Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue,

Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,

Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.

George Green below, with palpitating hand,

Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band.

Up soars the prize; the youth, with joy unfeign'd,

Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd,

While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat

Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat.

Gentlemen,

Happening to be wool-gathering at the foot of Mount Parnassus, I was suddenly seized with a violent travestie in the head. The first symptoms I felt were several triple rhymes floating about my brain, accompanied by a singing in my throat, which quickly communicated itself to the ears of everybody about me, and made me a burthen to my friends, and a torment to Doctor Apollo, three of whose favourite servants, that is to say, Macbeth, his butcher, Mrs. Haller, his cook, and George Barnwell, his book-keeper, I waylaid in one of my fits of insanity, and mauled after a very frightful fashion. In this woeful crisis I accidentally heard of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, which cures every disorder incident to Grub Street. I send you enclosed a more detailed specimen of my case; if you could mould it into the shape of an Address to be said or sung on the first night of your performance, I have no doubt that I should feel the immediate effects of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, of which they tell me one hiss is a dose.

I am, &c.Momus Medlar.

EnterMacbethin a red nightcap.Pagefollowing with a torch.Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell(She knows that my purpose is cruel),I'd thank her to tingle her bell,As soon as she's heated my gruel.Go, get thee to bed and repose,To sit up so late is a scandal;But ere you have ta'en off your clothes,Be sure that you put out that candle.Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol.My stars, in the air here's a knife!I'm sure it cannot be a hum;I'll catch at the handle, add's life,And then I shall not cut my thumb.I've got him!—no, at him again,Come, come, I'm not fond of these jokes:This must be some blade of the brain:Those witches are given to hoax.I've one in my pocket, I know,My wife left on purpose behind her,She bought this of Teddy-high-ho,The poor Caledonian grinder.I see thee again! o'er thy middleLarge drops of red blood now are spill'd,Just as much as to say diddle diddle,Good Duncan pray come and be kill'd.It leads to his chamber, I swear;I tremble and quake every joint;No dog at the scent of a hareEver yet made a cleverer point.Ah, no! 'twas a dagger of straw—Give me blinkers to save me from starting;The knife that I thought that I saw,Was nought but my eye, Betty Martin.Now o'er this terrestrial hiveA life paralytic is spread,For while the one half is alive,The other is sleepy and dead.King Duncan in grand majestyHas got my state bed for a snooze,I've lent him my slippers, so IMay certainly stand in his shoes.Blow softly, ye murmuring gales,Ye feet rouse no echo in walking,For though a dead man tells no tales,Dead walls are much given to talking.This knife shall be in at the death,I'll stick him, then off safely get.Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth,For he'd ne'er stick at anything yet.Hark, hark, 'tis the signal by goles,It sounds like a funeral knell:O hear it not, Duncan, it tollsTo call thee to heaven or hell.Or if you to heaven won't fly,But rather prefer Pluto's ether,Only wait a few years till I die,And we'll go to the devil together,Ri fol de rol, &c.

EnterMacbethin a red nightcap.Pagefollowing with a torch.

Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell(She knows that my purpose is cruel),I'd thank her to tingle her bell,As soon as she's heated my gruel.Go, get thee to bed and repose,To sit up so late is a scandal;But ere you have ta'en off your clothes,Be sure that you put out that candle.Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol.

Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell

(She knows that my purpose is cruel),

I'd thank her to tingle her bell,

As soon as she's heated my gruel.

Go, get thee to bed and repose,

To sit up so late is a scandal;

But ere you have ta'en off your clothes,

Be sure that you put out that candle.

Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol.

My stars, in the air here's a knife!I'm sure it cannot be a hum;I'll catch at the handle, add's life,And then I shall not cut my thumb.I've got him!—no, at him again,Come, come, I'm not fond of these jokes:This must be some blade of the brain:Those witches are given to hoax.

My stars, in the air here's a knife!

I'm sure it cannot be a hum;

I'll catch at the handle, add's life,

And then I shall not cut my thumb.

I've got him!—no, at him again,

Come, come, I'm not fond of these jokes:

This must be some blade of the brain:

Those witches are given to hoax.

I've one in my pocket, I know,My wife left on purpose behind her,She bought this of Teddy-high-ho,The poor Caledonian grinder.I see thee again! o'er thy middleLarge drops of red blood now are spill'd,Just as much as to say diddle diddle,Good Duncan pray come and be kill'd.

I've one in my pocket, I know,

My wife left on purpose behind her,

She bought this of Teddy-high-ho,

The poor Caledonian grinder.

I see thee again! o'er thy middle

Large drops of red blood now are spill'd,

Just as much as to say diddle diddle,

Good Duncan pray come and be kill'd.

It leads to his chamber, I swear;I tremble and quake every joint;No dog at the scent of a hareEver yet made a cleverer point.Ah, no! 'twas a dagger of straw—Give me blinkers to save me from starting;The knife that I thought that I saw,Was nought but my eye, Betty Martin.

It leads to his chamber, I swear;

I tremble and quake every joint;

No dog at the scent of a hare

Ever yet made a cleverer point.

Ah, no! 'twas a dagger of straw—

Give me blinkers to save me from starting;

The knife that I thought that I saw,

Was nought but my eye, Betty Martin.

Now o'er this terrestrial hiveA life paralytic is spread,For while the one half is alive,The other is sleepy and dead.King Duncan in grand majestyHas got my state bed for a snooze,I've lent him my slippers, so IMay certainly stand in his shoes.

Now o'er this terrestrial hive

A life paralytic is spread,

For while the one half is alive,

The other is sleepy and dead.

King Duncan in grand majesty

Has got my state bed for a snooze,

I've lent him my slippers, so I

May certainly stand in his shoes.

Blow softly, ye murmuring gales,Ye feet rouse no echo in walking,For though a dead man tells no tales,Dead walls are much given to talking.This knife shall be in at the death,I'll stick him, then off safely get.Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth,For he'd ne'er stick at anything yet.

Blow softly, ye murmuring gales,

Ye feet rouse no echo in walking,

For though a dead man tells no tales,

Dead walls are much given to talking.

This knife shall be in at the death,

I'll stick him, then off safely get.

Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth,

For he'd ne'er stick at anything yet.

Hark, hark, 'tis the signal by goles,It sounds like a funeral knell:O hear it not, Duncan, it tollsTo call thee to heaven or hell.Or if you to heaven won't fly,But rather prefer Pluto's ether,Only wait a few years till I die,And we'll go to the devil together,Ri fol de rol, &c.

Hark, hark, 'tis the signal by goles,

It sounds like a funeral knell:

O hear it not, Duncan, it tolls

To call thee to heaven or hell.

Or if you to heaven won't fly,

But rather prefer Pluto's ether,

Only wait a few years till I die,

And we'll go to the devil together,

Ri fol de rol, &c.

Who has e'er been at Drury must needs know the Stranger,A wailing old Methodist, gloomy and wan,A husband suspicious, his wife acted Ranger,She took to her heels, and left poor Hypochon.Her martial gallant swore that truth was a libel,That marriage was thraldom, elopement no sin;Quoth she, "I remember the words of my Bible,My spouse is a Stranger, and I'll take him in."With my sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em,And pathos and bathos delightful to see;And chop and change ribs a-la-mode Germanorum,And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.To keep up her dignity, no longer rich enough,Where was her plate? why 'twas laid on the shelf.Her land fuller's earth, and her great riches kitchen stuff,Dressing the dinner instead of herself.No longer permitted in diamonds to sparkle,Now plain Mrs. Haller, of servants the dread,With a heart full of grief and a pan full of charcoal,She lighted the company up to their bed.Incensed at her flight, her poor hubby in dudgeonRoam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout,Till, tired with his journey, the peevish curmudgeon,Sat down and blubber'd just like a church spout.One day on a bench as dejected and sad he laid,Hearing a squash, he cried, "Hullo, what's that?"'Twas a child of the Count's, in whose service lived Adelaide,Soused in the river and squalled like a cat.Having drawn his young excellence up to the bank, itAppear'd that himself was all dripping, I swear,No wonder he soon became dry as a blanket,Exposed as he was to the Count'ssonandheir."Dear sir," quoth the Count, "in reward of your valour,To show that my gratitude is not mere talk,You shall eat a beefsteak which my cook, Mrs. Haller,Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork."Behold, now the Count gave the Stranger a dinner,With gunpowder tea, which you know brings a ball,And, thin as he was, that he might not grow thinner,He made of the Stranger no stranger at all;At dinner fair Adelaide brought up a chicken,A bird that she never had met with before,But, seeing him, scream'd, and was carried off, kicking,And he bang'd his nob 'gainst the opposite door.To finish my tale without roundaboutation,Young master and missee besieged their papa,They sung a quartetto in grand blubberation;The Stranger cried "Oh!" Mrs. Haller cried "Ah!"Though pathos and sentiment largely are dealt in,I have no good moral to give in exchange,For though she as a cook might be given to melting,The Stranger's behaviour was certainly strange,With his sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em,And pathos and bathos delightful to see,And chop and change ribs a-la-mode Germanorum,And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.

Who has e'er been at Drury must needs know the Stranger,

A wailing old Methodist, gloomy and wan,

A husband suspicious, his wife acted Ranger,

She took to her heels, and left poor Hypochon.

Her martial gallant swore that truth was a libel,

That marriage was thraldom, elopement no sin;

Quoth she, "I remember the words of my Bible,

My spouse is a Stranger, and I'll take him in."

With my sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em,

And pathos and bathos delightful to see;

And chop and change ribs a-la-mode Germanorum,

And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.

To keep up her dignity, no longer rich enough,Where was her plate? why 'twas laid on the shelf.Her land fuller's earth, and her great riches kitchen stuff,Dressing the dinner instead of herself.No longer permitted in diamonds to sparkle,Now plain Mrs. Haller, of servants the dread,With a heart full of grief and a pan full of charcoal,She lighted the company up to their bed.

To keep up her dignity, no longer rich enough,

Where was her plate? why 'twas laid on the shelf.

Her land fuller's earth, and her great riches kitchen stuff,

Dressing the dinner instead of herself.

No longer permitted in diamonds to sparkle,

Now plain Mrs. Haller, of servants the dread,

With a heart full of grief and a pan full of charcoal,

She lighted the company up to their bed.

Incensed at her flight, her poor hubby in dudgeonRoam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout,Till, tired with his journey, the peevish curmudgeon,Sat down and blubber'd just like a church spout.One day on a bench as dejected and sad he laid,Hearing a squash, he cried, "Hullo, what's that?"'Twas a child of the Count's, in whose service lived Adelaide,Soused in the river and squalled like a cat.

Incensed at her flight, her poor hubby in dudgeon

Roam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout,

Till, tired with his journey, the peevish curmudgeon,

Sat down and blubber'd just like a church spout.

One day on a bench as dejected and sad he laid,

Hearing a squash, he cried, "Hullo, what's that?"

'Twas a child of the Count's, in whose service lived Adelaide,

Soused in the river and squalled like a cat.

Having drawn his young excellence up to the bank, itAppear'd that himself was all dripping, I swear,No wonder he soon became dry as a blanket,Exposed as he was to the Count'ssonandheir."Dear sir," quoth the Count, "in reward of your valour,To show that my gratitude is not mere talk,You shall eat a beefsteak which my cook, Mrs. Haller,Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork."

Having drawn his young excellence up to the bank, it

Appear'd that himself was all dripping, I swear,

No wonder he soon became dry as a blanket,

Exposed as he was to the Count'ssonandheir.

"Dear sir," quoth the Count, "in reward of your valour,

To show that my gratitude is not mere talk,

You shall eat a beefsteak which my cook, Mrs. Haller,

Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork."

Behold, now the Count gave the Stranger a dinner,With gunpowder tea, which you know brings a ball,And, thin as he was, that he might not grow thinner,He made of the Stranger no stranger at all;At dinner fair Adelaide brought up a chicken,A bird that she never had met with before,But, seeing him, scream'd, and was carried off, kicking,And he bang'd his nob 'gainst the opposite door.

Behold, now the Count gave the Stranger a dinner,

With gunpowder tea, which you know brings a ball,

And, thin as he was, that he might not grow thinner,

He made of the Stranger no stranger at all;

At dinner fair Adelaide brought up a chicken,

A bird that she never had met with before,

But, seeing him, scream'd, and was carried off, kicking,

And he bang'd his nob 'gainst the opposite door.

To finish my tale without roundaboutation,Young master and missee besieged their papa,They sung a quartetto in grand blubberation;The Stranger cried "Oh!" Mrs. Haller cried "Ah!"Though pathos and sentiment largely are dealt in,I have no good moral to give in exchange,For though she as a cook might be given to melting,The Stranger's behaviour was certainly strange,With his sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em,And pathos and bathos delightful to see,And chop and change ribs a-la-mode Germanorum,And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.

To finish my tale without roundaboutation,

Young master and missee besieged their papa,

They sung a quartetto in grand blubberation;

The Stranger cried "Oh!" Mrs. Haller cried "Ah!"

Though pathos and sentiment largely are dealt in,

I have no good moral to give in exchange,

For though she as a cook might be given to melting,

The Stranger's behaviour was certainly strange,

With his sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em,

And pathos and bathos delightful to see,

And chop and change ribs a-la-mode Germanorum,

And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.

George Barnwell stood at the shop door,A customer hoping to find, sir;His apron was hanging before,But the tail of his coat was behind, sir.A lady so painted and smart,Cried, "Sir, I've exhausted my stock o' late,I've got nothing left but a groat,Could you give me four penn'orth of chocolate?Rum ti, &c.Her face was rouged up to the eyes,Which made her look prouder and prouder,His hair stood on end with surprise,And hers with pomatum and powder.The business was soon understood;The lady, who wish'd to be more rich,Cries, "Sweet sir, my name is Milwood,And I lodge at the Gunner's, in Shoreditch."Rum ti, &c.Now nightly he stole out, good lack,And into her lodging would pop, sir,And often forgot to come back,Leaving master to shut up the shop, sir,Her beauty his wits did bereave;Determin'd to be quite the crack O,He lounged at the Adam and Eve,And call'd for his gin and tobacco.Rum ti, &c.And now (for the truth must be told)Though none of a 'prentice should speak ill,He stole from the till all the gold,And ate the lump sugar and treacle.In vain did his master exclaim,"Dear George, don't engage with that Dragon,She'll lead you to sorrow and shame,And leave you the devil a rag onYour Rum ti," &c.In vain he entreats and imploresThe weak and incurable ninny,So kicks him at last out of doors,And Georgy soon spends his last guinea.His uncle, whose generous purseHad often relieved him, as I know,Now finding him grow worse and worse,Refused to come down with the rhino.Rum ti, &c.Cried Milwood, whose cruel heart's core,Was so flinty that nothing could shock it,"If ye mean to come here any more,Pray come with more cash in your pocket.Make nunky surrender his dibs,Rub his pate with a pair of lead towels,Or stick a knife into his ribs,I'll warrant he'll then show some bowels."Rum ti, &c.A pistol he got from his love,'Twas loaded with powder and bullet,He trudged off to Camberwell Grove,But wanted the courage to pull it."There's nunky as fat as a hog,While I am as lean as a lizard;Here's at you! you stingy old dog!"And he whips a long knife in his gizzard.Rum ti, &c.All you who attend to my song,A terrible end of the farce shall see,If you join the inquisitive throngThat followed poor George to the Marshalsea."If Milwood were here, dash my wigs!"Quoth he, "I would pummel and lam her well!Had I stuck to my prunes and my figs,I ne'er had stuck nunky at Camberwell."Rum ti, &c.Their bodies were never cut down,For granny relates with amazement,A witch bore 'em over the townAnd hung them on Thorowgood's casement.The neighbours, I've heard the folks say,The miracle noisily brag on,And the shop is to this very day,The sign of the George and the Dragon.Rum ti, &c.

George Barnwell stood at the shop door,

A customer hoping to find, sir;

His apron was hanging before,

But the tail of his coat was behind, sir.

A lady so painted and smart,

Cried, "Sir, I've exhausted my stock o' late,

I've got nothing left but a groat,

Could you give me four penn'orth of chocolate?

Rum ti, &c.

Her face was rouged up to the eyes,Which made her look prouder and prouder,His hair stood on end with surprise,And hers with pomatum and powder.The business was soon understood;The lady, who wish'd to be more rich,Cries, "Sweet sir, my name is Milwood,And I lodge at the Gunner's, in Shoreditch."Rum ti, &c.

Her face was rouged up to the eyes,

Which made her look prouder and prouder,

His hair stood on end with surprise,

And hers with pomatum and powder.

The business was soon understood;

The lady, who wish'd to be more rich,

Cries, "Sweet sir, my name is Milwood,

And I lodge at the Gunner's, in Shoreditch."

Rum ti, &c.

Now nightly he stole out, good lack,And into her lodging would pop, sir,And often forgot to come back,Leaving master to shut up the shop, sir,Her beauty his wits did bereave;Determin'd to be quite the crack O,He lounged at the Adam and Eve,And call'd for his gin and tobacco.Rum ti, &c.

Now nightly he stole out, good lack,

And into her lodging would pop, sir,

And often forgot to come back,

Leaving master to shut up the shop, sir,

Her beauty his wits did bereave;

Determin'd to be quite the crack O,

He lounged at the Adam and Eve,

And call'd for his gin and tobacco.

Rum ti, &c.

And now (for the truth must be told)Though none of a 'prentice should speak ill,He stole from the till all the gold,And ate the lump sugar and treacle.In vain did his master exclaim,"Dear George, don't engage with that Dragon,She'll lead you to sorrow and shame,And leave you the devil a rag onYour Rum ti," &c.

And now (for the truth must be told)

Though none of a 'prentice should speak ill,

He stole from the till all the gold,

And ate the lump sugar and treacle.

In vain did his master exclaim,

"Dear George, don't engage with that Dragon,

She'll lead you to sorrow and shame,

And leave you the devil a rag on

Your Rum ti," &c.

In vain he entreats and imploresThe weak and incurable ninny,So kicks him at last out of doors,And Georgy soon spends his last guinea.His uncle, whose generous purseHad often relieved him, as I know,Now finding him grow worse and worse,Refused to come down with the rhino.Rum ti, &c.

In vain he entreats and implores

The weak and incurable ninny,

So kicks him at last out of doors,

And Georgy soon spends his last guinea.

His uncle, whose generous purse

Had often relieved him, as I know,

Now finding him grow worse and worse,

Refused to come down with the rhino.

Rum ti, &c.

Cried Milwood, whose cruel heart's core,Was so flinty that nothing could shock it,"If ye mean to come here any more,Pray come with more cash in your pocket.Make nunky surrender his dibs,Rub his pate with a pair of lead towels,Or stick a knife into his ribs,I'll warrant he'll then show some bowels."Rum ti, &c.

Cried Milwood, whose cruel heart's core,

Was so flinty that nothing could shock it,

"If ye mean to come here any more,

Pray come with more cash in your pocket.

Make nunky surrender his dibs,

Rub his pate with a pair of lead towels,

Or stick a knife into his ribs,

I'll warrant he'll then show some bowels."

Rum ti, &c.

A pistol he got from his love,'Twas loaded with powder and bullet,He trudged off to Camberwell Grove,But wanted the courage to pull it."There's nunky as fat as a hog,While I am as lean as a lizard;Here's at you! you stingy old dog!"And he whips a long knife in his gizzard.Rum ti, &c.

A pistol he got from his love,

'Twas loaded with powder and bullet,

He trudged off to Camberwell Grove,

But wanted the courage to pull it.

"There's nunky as fat as a hog,

While I am as lean as a lizard;

Here's at you! you stingy old dog!"

And he whips a long knife in his gizzard.

Rum ti, &c.

All you who attend to my song,A terrible end of the farce shall see,If you join the inquisitive throngThat followed poor George to the Marshalsea."If Milwood were here, dash my wigs!"Quoth he, "I would pummel and lam her well!Had I stuck to my prunes and my figs,I ne'er had stuck nunky at Camberwell."Rum ti, &c.

All you who attend to my song,

A terrible end of the farce shall see,

If you join the inquisitive throng

That followed poor George to the Marshalsea.

"If Milwood were here, dash my wigs!"

Quoth he, "I would pummel and lam her well!

Had I stuck to my prunes and my figs,

I ne'er had stuck nunky at Camberwell."

Rum ti, &c.

Their bodies were never cut down,For granny relates with amazement,A witch bore 'em over the townAnd hung them on Thorowgood's casement.The neighbours, I've heard the folks say,The miracle noisily brag on,And the shop is to this very day,The sign of the George and the Dragon.Rum ti, &c.

Their bodies were never cut down,

For granny relates with amazement,

A witch bore 'em over the town

And hung them on Thorowgood's casement.

The neighbours, I've heard the folks say,

The miracle noisily brag on,

And the shop is to this very day,

The sign of the George and the Dragon.

Rum ti, &c.

By T. H.

Rhymes the rudders are of verses,With which, like ships, they steer their courses.—Hudibras.

Rhymes the rudders are of verses,

With which, like ships, they steer their courses.—Hudibras.

Scene draws, and discoversPunchon a throne surrounded byLear, Lady Macbeth, Macbeth, Othello, George Barnwell, Hamlet, Ghost, Macheath, Juliet, Friar, Apothecary, Romeo,andFalstaff.—Punchdescends, and addresses them in the following

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