THE DUNMOWFLITCH OF BACON.FLITCH OF BACON.

Strange things every day we hear.So one and all pray draw near,Of a strange trial you shall hear,Concerning life in a Convent.In Hull, as I to you will tell,Within a Convent I did dwell,A Mother, as you know well,And a Sister of Mercy.Her name is Starr, as I now state,She’s a perfect star, and no mistake,So I will tell you if you will wait,How they treated a Nun in a Convent.Now the trial is o’er, and the Judge did sayMistress Starr, you have lost the day,And five hundred pounds you’ll have to payFor tricks that are play’d in the Convent.Now this Nun’s name it is S——n,Who wished to lead a life serene,And has for years an inmate been,And led a nice life in the Convent.For Mrs. Starr—that merciful mother—In her some faults would oft discover,And led her a life, a regular drudger,When she was in the Convent.This Nun she could do nothing right,She was always wrong, both day and night,To be a Nun is’nt nice,How happy they live in a Convent!She made her on her knees to go,Black-lead the stoves, scrub the floor,Empty them things the name I don’t know,And that’s what she did in a Convent.She dare not keep thimble, cotton, or rag,Her clothes were not fit for a bone-picker’s bag,And would make her walk about, isn’t it sad,When she was in the Convent.If she snored in bed that was not right,Or picked gooseberries that was not ripe,This duck of a mother led her a fine life.Oh, who would live in a Convent?If she dared to write, or too loud speak,Or if of grub too much did eat,She must lay for a month without blanket or sheet,Oh, that was a treat in a Convent!Mrs. Starr said she once met her with a hamAnd her mouth was like turkey’s crammed,And she said, sister, what are you at,I declare your mother is smothered in fat,Did you ever see such an hungry glutton,Upon sawdust you must be put on,You put away ham if you’re baulk’d of mutton,Said kind Mother Starr of the Convent.When her stocking was the Judge before,He said they’re old, I’m certain sure,Why they’ve been well patched behind and before,Is that what they wear in a Convent?Yes, said the Nun, and it is a great scandal,She says grease is dear, and I must not use candle,And as for the grub I could’nt handle,Whilst I was in the Convent.It would puzzle Old Nick with her to agree,And as for mercy, small share she gave me,So I think my Lord Judge, you plainly may see,It’s no joke to live in a Convent.So ladies all, don’t think it a sin,If your husband at night you can’t keep in,Send for Mrs. Starr, and bundle him in,And give him a month in a Convent;He’ll miss his wife to tuck in the clothes,To make him gruel and tallow his nose,For one dose will cure him I do suppose,If he only gets in a Convent.Now you young lasses, my song is near done,And I would advise you everyone,To ask Mrs Starr to make you a Nun,And have a peep at her Convent!

Strange things every day we hear.

So one and all pray draw near,

Of a strange trial you shall hear,

Concerning life in a Convent.

In Hull, as I to you will tell,

Within a Convent I did dwell,

A Mother, as you know well,

And a Sister of Mercy.

Her name is Starr, as I now state,

She’s a perfect star, and no mistake,

So I will tell you if you will wait,

How they treated a Nun in a Convent.

Now the trial is o’er, and the Judge did sayMistress Starr, you have lost the day,And five hundred pounds you’ll have to payFor tricks that are play’d in the Convent.

Now the trial is o’er, and the Judge did say

Mistress Starr, you have lost the day,

And five hundred pounds you’ll have to pay

For tricks that are play’d in the Convent.

Now this Nun’s name it is S——n,Who wished to lead a life serene,And has for years an inmate been,And led a nice life in the Convent.For Mrs. Starr—that merciful mother—In her some faults would oft discover,And led her a life, a regular drudger,When she was in the Convent.This Nun she could do nothing right,She was always wrong, both day and night,To be a Nun is’nt nice,How happy they live in a Convent!

Now this Nun’s name it is S——n,

Who wished to lead a life serene,

And has for years an inmate been,

And led a nice life in the Convent.

For Mrs. Starr—that merciful mother—

In her some faults would oft discover,

And led her a life, a regular drudger,

When she was in the Convent.

This Nun she could do nothing right,

She was always wrong, both day and night,

To be a Nun is’nt nice,

How happy they live in a Convent!

She made her on her knees to go,Black-lead the stoves, scrub the floor,Empty them things the name I don’t know,And that’s what she did in a Convent.She dare not keep thimble, cotton, or rag,Her clothes were not fit for a bone-picker’s bag,And would make her walk about, isn’t it sad,When she was in the Convent.If she snored in bed that was not right,Or picked gooseberries that was not ripe,This duck of a mother led her a fine life.Oh, who would live in a Convent?

She made her on her knees to go,

Black-lead the stoves, scrub the floor,

Empty them things the name I don’t know,

And that’s what she did in a Convent.

She dare not keep thimble, cotton, or rag,

Her clothes were not fit for a bone-picker’s bag,

And would make her walk about, isn’t it sad,

When she was in the Convent.

If she snored in bed that was not right,

Or picked gooseberries that was not ripe,

This duck of a mother led her a fine life.

Oh, who would live in a Convent?

If she dared to write, or too loud speak,Or if of grub too much did eat,She must lay for a month without blanket or sheet,Oh, that was a treat in a Convent!Mrs. Starr said she once met her with a hamAnd her mouth was like turkey’s crammed,And she said, sister, what are you at,I declare your mother is smothered in fat,Did you ever see such an hungry glutton,Upon sawdust you must be put on,You put away ham if you’re baulk’d of mutton,Said kind Mother Starr of the Convent.

If she dared to write, or too loud speak,

Or if of grub too much did eat,

She must lay for a month without blanket or sheet,

Oh, that was a treat in a Convent!

Mrs. Starr said she once met her with a ham

And her mouth was like turkey’s crammed,

And she said, sister, what are you at,

I declare your mother is smothered in fat,

Did you ever see such an hungry glutton,

Upon sawdust you must be put on,

You put away ham if you’re baulk’d of mutton,

Said kind Mother Starr of the Convent.

When her stocking was the Judge before,He said they’re old, I’m certain sure,Why they’ve been well patched behind and before,Is that what they wear in a Convent?Yes, said the Nun, and it is a great scandal,She says grease is dear, and I must not use candle,And as for the grub I could’nt handle,Whilst I was in the Convent.It would puzzle Old Nick with her to agree,And as for mercy, small share she gave me,So I think my Lord Judge, you plainly may see,It’s no joke to live in a Convent.

When her stocking was the Judge before,

He said they’re old, I’m certain sure,

Why they’ve been well patched behind and before,

Is that what they wear in a Convent?

Yes, said the Nun, and it is a great scandal,

She says grease is dear, and I must not use candle,

And as for the grub I could’nt handle,

Whilst I was in the Convent.

It would puzzle Old Nick with her to agree,

And as for mercy, small share she gave me,

So I think my Lord Judge, you plainly may see,

It’s no joke to live in a Convent.

So ladies all, don’t think it a sin,If your husband at night you can’t keep in,Send for Mrs. Starr, and bundle him in,And give him a month in a Convent;He’ll miss his wife to tuck in the clothes,To make him gruel and tallow his nose,For one dose will cure him I do suppose,If he only gets in a Convent.Now you young lasses, my song is near done,And I would advise you everyone,To ask Mrs Starr to make you a Nun,And have a peep at her Convent!

So ladies all, don’t think it a sin,

If your husband at night you can’t keep in,

Send for Mrs. Starr, and bundle him in,

And give him a month in a Convent;

He’ll miss his wife to tuck in the clothes,

To make him gruel and tallow his nose,

For one dose will cure him I do suppose,

If he only gets in a Convent.

Now you young lasses, my song is near done,

And I would advise you everyone,

To ask Mrs Starr to make you a Nun,

And have a peep at her Convent!

W. S. Fortey, General Steam Printer and Publisher, 2 & 3, Monmouth Court, Bloomsbury.

Come all you married couples gay,Get up before the break of day,To Dunmow then pray haste away,To gain the flitch of bacon;There is such pleasure, mirth and glee,The married folks will have a spree,They’ll try for love and victory,And the Dunmow Flitch of Bacon.So lads and lasses haste away,And do not make the least delay,And to Dunmow town pray haste away,And carry off the bacon.There’s special trains from distant parts,Young and old, with joyful hearts,In coaches, gigs, and donkey carts,Have come to the flitch of bacon;Sound the trumpets, beat the drums,See how the lads and lasses run,To Burton’s meadow they have come,To view the flitch of bacon.A man and wife must married be,Just a twelvemonth and a day.And never have a quarrel they say,To get the flitch of bacon;And when they gain the prize, we hear,They’ll carry them round the town on a chair,And give them many a lusty cheer,And show the flitch of bacon.There’s a grand procession through the town,And Mr. Smith, he has come down,We’ll drink his health in glasses round,—Success to the flitch of bacon;Young men and maids like summer bees,We’ll roam beneath the shady trees,Come marry me quick now, if you please,And next year we’ll get the bacon.Some will laugh, and some will shout,Some on the grass will roll about,While smart young men, without a doubt,Will dance with the pretty ladies;Bands of music sweetly play,Smart young men and maidens gay,To Burton’s meadow they will stray,To talk of the flitch of bacon.The velocipedes will races run,The fight with clowns will cause some fun,And maypole dancing will be done,To please the folks of Dunmow;There’s punch and judy, all so gay,The clowns they will at cricket play,To the circus the folks will haste away,To see Bluebeard at Dunmow!Now when the sport it is all done,And the flitch of bacon carried home,Some scores will to the pop-shop run,With bolsters, quilts, and blankets;Coats and waistcoats, gowns and shawls,Shirts, chignons, and parasols,Will have to go to the golden balls,To pay for the spree at Dunmow.So now to finish up my lay,Take my advice, young ladies gay,Get married now without delay,And try for the flitch of bacon;For the Essex lads they are so sly,And you had better mind your eye,Or next year you may have a girl or a boy,Marked with a flitch of bacon!

Come all you married couples gay,

Get up before the break of day,

To Dunmow then pray haste away,

To gain the flitch of bacon;

There is such pleasure, mirth and glee,

The married folks will have a spree,

They’ll try for love and victory,

And the Dunmow Flitch of Bacon.

So lads and lasses haste away,And do not make the least delay,And to Dunmow town pray haste away,And carry off the bacon.

So lads and lasses haste away,

And do not make the least delay,

And to Dunmow town pray haste away,

And carry off the bacon.

There’s special trains from distant parts,Young and old, with joyful hearts,In coaches, gigs, and donkey carts,Have come to the flitch of bacon;Sound the trumpets, beat the drums,See how the lads and lasses run,To Burton’s meadow they have come,To view the flitch of bacon.

There’s special trains from distant parts,

Young and old, with joyful hearts,

In coaches, gigs, and donkey carts,

Have come to the flitch of bacon;

Sound the trumpets, beat the drums,

See how the lads and lasses run,

To Burton’s meadow they have come,

To view the flitch of bacon.

A man and wife must married be,Just a twelvemonth and a day.And never have a quarrel they say,To get the flitch of bacon;And when they gain the prize, we hear,They’ll carry them round the town on a chair,And give them many a lusty cheer,And show the flitch of bacon.

A man and wife must married be,

Just a twelvemonth and a day.

And never have a quarrel they say,

To get the flitch of bacon;

And when they gain the prize, we hear,

They’ll carry them round the town on a chair,

And give them many a lusty cheer,

And show the flitch of bacon.

There’s a grand procession through the town,And Mr. Smith, he has come down,We’ll drink his health in glasses round,—Success to the flitch of bacon;Young men and maids like summer bees,We’ll roam beneath the shady trees,Come marry me quick now, if you please,And next year we’ll get the bacon.

There’s a grand procession through the town,

And Mr. Smith, he has come down,

We’ll drink his health in glasses round,—

Success to the flitch of bacon;

Young men and maids like summer bees,

We’ll roam beneath the shady trees,

Come marry me quick now, if you please,

And next year we’ll get the bacon.

Some will laugh, and some will shout,Some on the grass will roll about,While smart young men, without a doubt,Will dance with the pretty ladies;Bands of music sweetly play,Smart young men and maidens gay,To Burton’s meadow they will stray,To talk of the flitch of bacon.

Some will laugh, and some will shout,

Some on the grass will roll about,

While smart young men, without a doubt,

Will dance with the pretty ladies;

Bands of music sweetly play,

Smart young men and maidens gay,

To Burton’s meadow they will stray,

To talk of the flitch of bacon.

The velocipedes will races run,The fight with clowns will cause some fun,And maypole dancing will be done,To please the folks of Dunmow;There’s punch and judy, all so gay,The clowns they will at cricket play,To the circus the folks will haste away,To see Bluebeard at Dunmow!

The velocipedes will races run,

The fight with clowns will cause some fun,

And maypole dancing will be done,

To please the folks of Dunmow;

There’s punch and judy, all so gay,

The clowns they will at cricket play,

To the circus the folks will haste away,

To see Bluebeard at Dunmow!

Now when the sport it is all done,And the flitch of bacon carried home,Some scores will to the pop-shop run,With bolsters, quilts, and blankets;Coats and waistcoats, gowns and shawls,Shirts, chignons, and parasols,Will have to go to the golden balls,To pay for the spree at Dunmow.

Now when the sport it is all done,

And the flitch of bacon carried home,

Some scores will to the pop-shop run,

With bolsters, quilts, and blankets;

Coats and waistcoats, gowns and shawls,

Shirts, chignons, and parasols,

Will have to go to the golden balls,

To pay for the spree at Dunmow.

So now to finish up my lay,Take my advice, young ladies gay,Get married now without delay,And try for the flitch of bacon;For the Essex lads they are so sly,And you had better mind your eye,Or next year you may have a girl or a boy,Marked with a flitch of bacon!

So now to finish up my lay,

Take my advice, young ladies gay,

Get married now without delay,

And try for the flitch of bacon;

For the Essex lads they are so sly,

And you had better mind your eye,

Or next year you may have a girl or a boy,

Marked with a flitch of bacon!

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.

Who suffered the extreme penalty of the law, Saturday, November 9th, 1867.

Come one and all, pray listen to my ditty,Good times have gone by,—oh dear what a pity!The procession this year I have to relate,And how on the ninth they will all go in state.They all shake their heads and say it’s no go,It’s the last dying speech of the Lord Mayor’s Show.At half-past eleven, by the word of command,From Guildhall will tumble a big German Band;With mounted police,—to you it is plain—On their hats stuck a lamp with a portrait of MayneOld Alderman Gobble with a large Chinese gong,Six girls with six shoelacks stuck on their chignonsThey set backside before, and so on you will find,And for reins hold the ribbons that hang down behind.There’s the old Lord Mayor stuck on a blind horseLike an old turtle, with his fat legs across;It will make him sore behind if he has a long ride,He has lost the key, or he would creep inside.Then the sword-bearer he will make a start,He sits like a king in an old donkey cart;He sold his hairy cap to make him a muff,And he has broke his sword on the old donkey’s duff.The great City Marshall, he is not much use,He is flying about like a one-legged goose;He is here and he’s there, and he’s off in a crack,You would think he had swallowed the New Streets Act.The poor men in armour are not here to day,Through last year’s exertion they sweated away;They are selling fusees—it’s a very bad trade,And all the poor horses into sausages are made.There’s old Parson Spurgeon, as sly as a fox,On a chair with two sticks, just like a Guy Faux;With tracts in his hand, you soon will him spy,And a dish of fine sprats and a tear in each eye.There’s poor Gog and Magog, so it appears,With a pail in each hand to catch their own tears,They both weep in anguish and been heard to sayThe days of our pastime are faded away.Then comes the Lord Mayor—he makes it a rule,He rides on the back of an Abyssinian mule;The great Lady Mayoress, if her sight does not fail,She sits on behind, and holds on to his tail.All the old Companies have gone to the wall,No old blokes in livery was there at all;The flags and the banners, as I’m a sinner,Were put in the rag scale to get them a dinner.Now where’s the old coachman with his powdered wig?Who drove the state carriage so noble and big?If I tell you the truth, it will break your heart,They have sold the old coach to make a muck cart,They’re stopping all pleasure, except for the swells,In the course of time, there’ll be no pretty girls;No pleasure for children, but you can let them know,That a thing of the past is the Lord Mayor’s Show.For in the year ’67, how funny you know,There’s a New Streets Act, and there’s no Lord Mayor’s Show.W. Garbutt.

Come one and all, pray listen to my ditty,Good times have gone by,—oh dear what a pity!The procession this year I have to relate,And how on the ninth they will all go in state.

Come one and all, pray listen to my ditty,

Good times have gone by,—oh dear what a pity!

The procession this year I have to relate,

And how on the ninth they will all go in state.

They all shake their heads and say it’s no go,It’s the last dying speech of the Lord Mayor’s Show.

They all shake their heads and say it’s no go,

It’s the last dying speech of the Lord Mayor’s Show.

At half-past eleven, by the word of command,From Guildhall will tumble a big German Band;With mounted police,—to you it is plain—On their hats stuck a lamp with a portrait of Mayne

At half-past eleven, by the word of command,

From Guildhall will tumble a big German Band;

With mounted police,—to you it is plain—

On their hats stuck a lamp with a portrait of Mayne

Old Alderman Gobble with a large Chinese gong,Six girls with six shoelacks stuck on their chignonsThey set backside before, and so on you will find,And for reins hold the ribbons that hang down behind.

Old Alderman Gobble with a large Chinese gong,

Six girls with six shoelacks stuck on their chignons

They set backside before, and so on you will find,

And for reins hold the ribbons that hang down behind.

There’s the old Lord Mayor stuck on a blind horseLike an old turtle, with his fat legs across;It will make him sore behind if he has a long ride,He has lost the key, or he would creep inside.

There’s the old Lord Mayor stuck on a blind horse

Like an old turtle, with his fat legs across;

It will make him sore behind if he has a long ride,

He has lost the key, or he would creep inside.

Then the sword-bearer he will make a start,He sits like a king in an old donkey cart;He sold his hairy cap to make him a muff,And he has broke his sword on the old donkey’s duff.

Then the sword-bearer he will make a start,

He sits like a king in an old donkey cart;

He sold his hairy cap to make him a muff,

And he has broke his sword on the old donkey’s duff.

The great City Marshall, he is not much use,He is flying about like a one-legged goose;He is here and he’s there, and he’s off in a crack,You would think he had swallowed the New Streets Act.

The great City Marshall, he is not much use,

He is flying about like a one-legged goose;

He is here and he’s there, and he’s off in a crack,

You would think he had swallowed the New Streets Act.

The poor men in armour are not here to day,Through last year’s exertion they sweated away;They are selling fusees—it’s a very bad trade,And all the poor horses into sausages are made.

The poor men in armour are not here to day,

Through last year’s exertion they sweated away;

They are selling fusees—it’s a very bad trade,

And all the poor horses into sausages are made.

There’s old Parson Spurgeon, as sly as a fox,On a chair with two sticks, just like a Guy Faux;With tracts in his hand, you soon will him spy,And a dish of fine sprats and a tear in each eye.

There’s old Parson Spurgeon, as sly as a fox,

On a chair with two sticks, just like a Guy Faux;

With tracts in his hand, you soon will him spy,

And a dish of fine sprats and a tear in each eye.

There’s poor Gog and Magog, so it appears,With a pail in each hand to catch their own tears,They both weep in anguish and been heard to sayThe days of our pastime are faded away.

There’s poor Gog and Magog, so it appears,

With a pail in each hand to catch their own tears,

They both weep in anguish and been heard to say

The days of our pastime are faded away.

Then comes the Lord Mayor—he makes it a rule,He rides on the back of an Abyssinian mule;The great Lady Mayoress, if her sight does not fail,She sits on behind, and holds on to his tail.

Then comes the Lord Mayor—he makes it a rule,

He rides on the back of an Abyssinian mule;

The great Lady Mayoress, if her sight does not fail,

She sits on behind, and holds on to his tail.

All the old Companies have gone to the wall,No old blokes in livery was there at all;The flags and the banners, as I’m a sinner,Were put in the rag scale to get them a dinner.

All the old Companies have gone to the wall,

No old blokes in livery was there at all;

The flags and the banners, as I’m a sinner,

Were put in the rag scale to get them a dinner.

Now where’s the old coachman with his powdered wig?Who drove the state carriage so noble and big?If I tell you the truth, it will break your heart,They have sold the old coach to make a muck cart,

Now where’s the old coachman with his powdered wig?

Who drove the state carriage so noble and big?

If I tell you the truth, it will break your heart,

They have sold the old coach to make a muck cart,

They’re stopping all pleasure, except for the swells,In the course of time, there’ll be no pretty girls;No pleasure for children, but you can let them know,That a thing of the past is the Lord Mayor’s Show.

They’re stopping all pleasure, except for the swells,

In the course of time, there’ll be no pretty girls;

No pleasure for children, but you can let them know,

That a thing of the past is the Lord Mayor’s Show.

For in the year ’67, how funny you know,There’s a New Streets Act, and there’s no Lord Mayor’s Show.

For in the year ’67, how funny you know,

There’s a New Streets Act, and there’s no Lord Mayor’s Show.

W. Garbutt.

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.

Hark; the bells are merrily ringing,Doodah, doodah,The lads and lasses gaily singing,Oh doodah day.With turban hair, and slender waist,Doodah, doodah!They are off to see the Great Boat Race!Oh! doodah day.They pull with all their might,One must pull it off to day,Through thick and thin, let the best men win,But give them both fair play.Such sights were never seen on land or river,Such wonderful things you will discoverThe girl of the period—like clothes props.—Like a stick stuck on the head of a mop!Then a fat old lady bought a bargeTo see the sight so grand and large,Some one told her it was rotten,So they tarr’d her bows and cork’d her bottom.The next was a skiff, a gent and his daughterOh Pa’ the boat is making water!They were in a mess, depend upon it,She bailed her out with her plate bonnet.Here they come and there they go,Quite as good as the Lord Mayor’s Show;A scream!—what’s the matter?—that’s something good.A girl’s heels stuck up, and her head in the mud.The Americans, some say, will win it,Look at their move, forty strokes a minute,So you chaps you’d better look to itJust tell me the chap or girl that can do it.On the road some thousand lads and lasses,Singing, laughing and drinking their glasses,With legs as thick as cabbage stumps,Some wearing horns like the handle of a pump.Some of the girls will stop out all night,Just to look at the stars and stripes,Standing on tiptoe, in such a bustle,Just to look at the men’s big muscle.The Oxford lads look good and clever,Go it, lads, now or never!We know what you can do if you likeJust keep down the stars and stripes.Mr Caudle and family went on the water,Twelve in family, sons and daughters;The boat went down, by hook or by crook,They pulled them out with a boat hook.Such a glorious sight was never seen,But we did not expect to see the Queen;The Prince rode in a donkey cart,He wack’d the moke till he made him start.Success to the Havard, do the best they canAnd the Oxford too and every man,Let every one keep his place,No matter to us who wins the race.To get lodging, oh, such a bother,They all pig in with one another,They all lay down all of a lump,One pillows his head on another’s rump.So rolling home so tight,So happy and so gay,Success to all rowing men,—May the best men win the day.

Hark; the bells are merrily ringing,

Doodah, doodah,

The lads and lasses gaily singing,

Oh doodah day.

With turban hair, and slender waist,

Doodah, doodah!

They are off to see the Great Boat Race!

Oh! doodah day.

They pull with all their might,One must pull it off to day,Through thick and thin, let the best men win,But give them both fair play.

They pull with all their might,

One must pull it off to day,

Through thick and thin, let the best men win,

But give them both fair play.

Such sights were never seen on land or river,Such wonderful things you will discoverThe girl of the period—like clothes props.—Like a stick stuck on the head of a mop!

Such sights were never seen on land or river,

Such wonderful things you will discover

The girl of the period—like clothes props.—

Like a stick stuck on the head of a mop!

Then a fat old lady bought a bargeTo see the sight so grand and large,Some one told her it was rotten,So they tarr’d her bows and cork’d her bottom.

Then a fat old lady bought a barge

To see the sight so grand and large,

Some one told her it was rotten,

So they tarr’d her bows and cork’d her bottom.

The next was a skiff, a gent and his daughterOh Pa’ the boat is making water!They were in a mess, depend upon it,She bailed her out with her plate bonnet.

The next was a skiff, a gent and his daughter

Oh Pa’ the boat is making water!

They were in a mess, depend upon it,

She bailed her out with her plate bonnet.

Here they come and there they go,Quite as good as the Lord Mayor’s Show;A scream!—what’s the matter?—that’s something good.A girl’s heels stuck up, and her head in the mud.

Here they come and there they go,

Quite as good as the Lord Mayor’s Show;

A scream!—what’s the matter?—that’s something good.

A girl’s heels stuck up, and her head in the mud.

The Americans, some say, will win it,Look at their move, forty strokes a minute,So you chaps you’d better look to itJust tell me the chap or girl that can do it.

The Americans, some say, will win it,

Look at their move, forty strokes a minute,

So you chaps you’d better look to it

Just tell me the chap or girl that can do it.

On the road some thousand lads and lasses,Singing, laughing and drinking their glasses,With legs as thick as cabbage stumps,Some wearing horns like the handle of a pump.

On the road some thousand lads and lasses,

Singing, laughing and drinking their glasses,

With legs as thick as cabbage stumps,

Some wearing horns like the handle of a pump.

Some of the girls will stop out all night,Just to look at the stars and stripes,Standing on tiptoe, in such a bustle,Just to look at the men’s big muscle.

Some of the girls will stop out all night,

Just to look at the stars and stripes,

Standing on tiptoe, in such a bustle,

Just to look at the men’s big muscle.

The Oxford lads look good and clever,Go it, lads, now or never!We know what you can do if you likeJust keep down the stars and stripes.

The Oxford lads look good and clever,

Go it, lads, now or never!

We know what you can do if you like

Just keep down the stars and stripes.

Mr Caudle and family went on the water,Twelve in family, sons and daughters;The boat went down, by hook or by crook,They pulled them out with a boat hook.

Mr Caudle and family went on the water,

Twelve in family, sons and daughters;

The boat went down, by hook or by crook,

They pulled them out with a boat hook.

Such a glorious sight was never seen,But we did not expect to see the Queen;The Prince rode in a donkey cart,He wack’d the moke till he made him start.

Such a glorious sight was never seen,

But we did not expect to see the Queen;

The Prince rode in a donkey cart,

He wack’d the moke till he made him start.

Success to the Havard, do the best they canAnd the Oxford too and every man,Let every one keep his place,No matter to us who wins the race.

Success to the Havard, do the best they can

And the Oxford too and every man,

Let every one keep his place,

No matter to us who wins the race.

To get lodging, oh, such a bother,They all pig in with one another,They all lay down all of a lump,One pillows his head on another’s rump.

To get lodging, oh, such a bother,

They all pig in with one another,

They all lay down all of a lump,

One pillows his head on another’s rump.

So rolling home so tight,So happy and so gay,Success to all rowing men,—May the best men win the day.

So rolling home so tight,

So happy and so gay,

Success to all rowing men,—

May the best men win the day.

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.

Search all the world over I vow and declare,With the ladies of England there’s none can compareWith the sleeves on their arms like a coal-porter’s sack,Their cockleshell bonnets and Jack Sheppard hats.The ladies hooped petticoats dragging around,Just cover a mile and three-quarters of ground.Oh, I must have a husband young Jenny did say,I will be in the fashion so buxom and gay,With a bustle before and another behind,And under my trousers a big crinoline.When I’m married, my husband upon me will doat,Looking so fine in a hooped petticoat.To have one, I’ll just go a week without grub,Or else knock out the staves of our big washing-tub.There was an old lady went down through the Strand,She was linked in the arms of a dashing young man,Her hooped petticoat caught a coal-heaver’s clothes.Down he went like a donkey wop bang on his nose.The lasses that wander the streets in the dark,Swear they cannot get custom unless they’re smart,If their skin is as black as a Welch Billy Goat,They must have a wonderful hooped petticoat.An old farmer’s wife an hooped petticoat wore,’Twas as wide as an haystack behind and before,The wind caught the bottom as you may suppose,Then up in the clouds in a moment she goes.I knew a young milkmaid at old Farmer Days,She sold her frock and trousers, her stockings and stays,From her master’s beer barrel, a hoop then she took,And she had it sown round her new red petticoat.She got up one morning, so buxom and fine,She quickly went folding her new crinoline,She holloaed and swore such a terrible oath,For the old cow had calved in her hooped petticoat.A young lady of Aldershot was when it rained,And a regiment of soldiers going over the plain.Popped into a place, just for shelter they took,The whole regiment stood under her hooped petticoat!Good people, beware! as you pass through the streets,If a girl with a crinoline you chance for to meet,Take care as you ramble along in a group,Or, you may get caught in a hooped petticoat.There was a sweet duchess a lap dog had got,She had lost it one morning and cried such a lot,But oh, lack-aday, she beheld in a group,A bitch and nine pups in her hooped petticoat.They say that the queen has a crinoline on,And so has Prince Albert and buxom Lord John,We expect to see Palmerston next week afloat,Strutting up round May Fair in a hooped petticoat.

Search all the world over I vow and declare,

With the ladies of England there’s none can compare

With the sleeves on their arms like a coal-porter’s sack,

Their cockleshell bonnets and Jack Sheppard hats.

The ladies hooped petticoats dragging around,

Just cover a mile and three-quarters of ground.

Oh, I must have a husband young Jenny did say,I will be in the fashion so buxom and gay,With a bustle before and another behind,And under my trousers a big crinoline.

Oh, I must have a husband young Jenny did say,

I will be in the fashion so buxom and gay,

With a bustle before and another behind,

And under my trousers a big crinoline.

When I’m married, my husband upon me will doat,Looking so fine in a hooped petticoat.To have one, I’ll just go a week without grub,Or else knock out the staves of our big washing-tub.There was an old lady went down through the Strand,She was linked in the arms of a dashing young man,Her hooped petticoat caught a coal-heaver’s clothes.Down he went like a donkey wop bang on his nose.

When I’m married, my husband upon me will doat,

Looking so fine in a hooped petticoat.

To have one, I’ll just go a week without grub,

Or else knock out the staves of our big washing-tub.

There was an old lady went down through the Strand,

She was linked in the arms of a dashing young man,

Her hooped petticoat caught a coal-heaver’s clothes.

Down he went like a donkey wop bang on his nose.

The lasses that wander the streets in the dark,Swear they cannot get custom unless they’re smart,If their skin is as black as a Welch Billy Goat,They must have a wonderful hooped petticoat.

The lasses that wander the streets in the dark,

Swear they cannot get custom unless they’re smart,

If their skin is as black as a Welch Billy Goat,

They must have a wonderful hooped petticoat.

An old farmer’s wife an hooped petticoat wore,’Twas as wide as an haystack behind and before,The wind caught the bottom as you may suppose,Then up in the clouds in a moment she goes.

An old farmer’s wife an hooped petticoat wore,

’Twas as wide as an haystack behind and before,

The wind caught the bottom as you may suppose,

Then up in the clouds in a moment she goes.

I knew a young milkmaid at old Farmer Days,She sold her frock and trousers, her stockings and stays,From her master’s beer barrel, a hoop then she took,And she had it sown round her new red petticoat.

I knew a young milkmaid at old Farmer Days,

She sold her frock and trousers, her stockings and stays,

From her master’s beer barrel, a hoop then she took,

And she had it sown round her new red petticoat.

She got up one morning, so buxom and fine,She quickly went folding her new crinoline,She holloaed and swore such a terrible oath,For the old cow had calved in her hooped petticoat.

She got up one morning, so buxom and fine,

She quickly went folding her new crinoline,

She holloaed and swore such a terrible oath,

For the old cow had calved in her hooped petticoat.

A young lady of Aldershot was when it rained,And a regiment of soldiers going over the plain.Popped into a place, just for shelter they took,The whole regiment stood under her hooped petticoat!

A young lady of Aldershot was when it rained,

And a regiment of soldiers going over the plain.

Popped into a place, just for shelter they took,

The whole regiment stood under her hooped petticoat!

Good people, beware! as you pass through the streets,If a girl with a crinoline you chance for to meet,Take care as you ramble along in a group,Or, you may get caught in a hooped petticoat.

Good people, beware! as you pass through the streets,

If a girl with a crinoline you chance for to meet,

Take care as you ramble along in a group,

Or, you may get caught in a hooped petticoat.

There was a sweet duchess a lap dog had got,She had lost it one morning and cried such a lot,But oh, lack-aday, she beheld in a group,A bitch and nine pups in her hooped petticoat.

There was a sweet duchess a lap dog had got,

She had lost it one morning and cried such a lot,

But oh, lack-aday, she beheld in a group,

A bitch and nine pups in her hooped petticoat.

They say that the queen has a crinoline on,And so has Prince Albert and buxom Lord John,We expect to see Palmerston next week afloat,Strutting up round May Fair in a hooped petticoat.

They say that the queen has a crinoline on,

And so has Prince Albert and buxom Lord John,

We expect to see Palmerston next week afloat,

Strutting up round May Fair in a hooped petticoat.

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles.

Tune—“A Kiss and Nothing More.”Good people give attention, and listen to my rhyme,I’ll sing about the fashions that’s in vogue the present time,The ladies now have bustles, now don’t they cut it fine,With their dandy hat and feathers, and fancy crinoline?As I walked through the streets, not many days ago,I met a girl who said, she was looking for a beau,She invited me to go with her, I said I did not mind;She looked just like a lady, dressed up in a crinoline.She took me to a splendid house, with cushions on the chairs,She treated me to brandy—and took me up the stairs,She undressed me so kindly, and said she would be mine;But I cursed the hour I admired her handsome crinoline.I had a splendid watch and chain, I’d gold and silver, too,But in the morning when I woke I scarce knew what to do,For in the middle of the night, after treating me so kind,She stole my money, watch and clothes, and left me her crinoline.There’s a pretty bobbin winder, they call her Mary Jane,She’s courting a snob! so help my bob, that lives in —— lane;Last Sunday afternoon, she thought to cut it fine,With the hoop of her mother’s washing tub, she made a crinoline.I knew a steam loom weaver so cunning and so sly,She had got a hump upon her back, and she squints with one eye,She works at —— factory, her name is Anne O’Brian,Her smock’s as black as a chimney back and wears a crinoline.There’s a woman lives up —— road, they call her mother ——,She wants to buy a crinoline, to wear underneath her gown?But her husband would not let her, and when she was confined,She had a son mark’d on the bum, with a lady’s crinoline!

Tune—“A Kiss and Nothing More.”

Good people give attention, and listen to my rhyme,I’ll sing about the fashions that’s in vogue the present time,The ladies now have bustles, now don’t they cut it fine,With their dandy hat and feathers, and fancy crinoline?

Good people give attention, and listen to my rhyme,

I’ll sing about the fashions that’s in vogue the present time,

The ladies now have bustles, now don’t they cut it fine,

With their dandy hat and feathers, and fancy crinoline?

As I walked through the streets, not many days ago,I met a girl who said, she was looking for a beau,She invited me to go with her, I said I did not mind;She looked just like a lady, dressed up in a crinoline.

As I walked through the streets, not many days ago,

I met a girl who said, she was looking for a beau,

She invited me to go with her, I said I did not mind;

She looked just like a lady, dressed up in a crinoline.

She took me to a splendid house, with cushions on the chairs,She treated me to brandy—and took me up the stairs,She undressed me so kindly, and said she would be mine;But I cursed the hour I admired her handsome crinoline.

She took me to a splendid house, with cushions on the chairs,

She treated me to brandy—and took me up the stairs,

She undressed me so kindly, and said she would be mine;

But I cursed the hour I admired her handsome crinoline.

I had a splendid watch and chain, I’d gold and silver, too,But in the morning when I woke I scarce knew what to do,For in the middle of the night, after treating me so kind,She stole my money, watch and clothes, and left me her crinoline.

I had a splendid watch and chain, I’d gold and silver, too,

But in the morning when I woke I scarce knew what to do,

For in the middle of the night, after treating me so kind,

She stole my money, watch and clothes, and left me her crinoline.

There’s a pretty bobbin winder, they call her Mary Jane,She’s courting a snob! so help my bob, that lives in —— lane;Last Sunday afternoon, she thought to cut it fine,With the hoop of her mother’s washing tub, she made a crinoline.

There’s a pretty bobbin winder, they call her Mary Jane,

She’s courting a snob! so help my bob, that lives in —— lane;

Last Sunday afternoon, she thought to cut it fine,

With the hoop of her mother’s washing tub, she made a crinoline.

I knew a steam loom weaver so cunning and so sly,She had got a hump upon her back, and she squints with one eye,She works at —— factory, her name is Anne O’Brian,Her smock’s as black as a chimney back and wears a crinoline.

I knew a steam loom weaver so cunning and so sly,

She had got a hump upon her back, and she squints with one eye,

She works at —— factory, her name is Anne O’Brian,

Her smock’s as black as a chimney back and wears a crinoline.

There’s a woman lives up —— road, they call her mother ——,She wants to buy a crinoline, to wear underneath her gown?But her husband would not let her, and when she was confined,She had a son mark’d on the bum, with a lady’s crinoline!

There’s a woman lives up —— road, they call her mother ——,

She wants to buy a crinoline, to wear underneath her gown?

But her husband would not let her, and when she was confined,

She had a son mark’d on the bum, with a lady’s crinoline!

London:—H. SUCH, Printer, 123, Union Street, Boro’, and at 83, White Cross Street, St. Luke’s.

You lasses of —— come list to my song,’Tis concerning the fate of the fancy chignon;The ladies of Paris are determined ’tis said,To wear their own hair at the back of their head.They have given o’er wearing such queer looking lumpsOf nasty old rubbish screw’d up in great bumps,To cast them adrift they have made up their minds,To be ugly for ever they don’t feel inclined.CHORUS.The Chignons are going we’re happy to hear,From the young Ladies they must now disappear,They are not in the fashion and soon must be gone,It’s all up the spout with the saucy chignon.’Tis a good job they’re going, for the darling young girlsI am sure would look better in natural curls;Madame Rachel has worn such a wopper ’tis said,She is quite bandy-leg’d thro’ the weight of her head:Girls that want to be married before Whitsuntide,Pull off your Chignons and throw them aside,If you practice economy you’ll find it true,That a fancy chignon will make bustles for two.Those buxon old ladies who like to be gay,At the change in the fashions are out of the way,For with wig and chignon they all come the grand,Tho’ their heads are as bald as the palm of my hand.The ladies at first will feel rather strange,They will get light-headed I hope by the change,It will seem rather awkward at first I suppose,To wear hats on their heads now, instead of their nose.Now what’s to be done with the left off chignons,They are sure to amount to some millions of tons!To set them on fire would make all the world sneeze,And slaughter some thousand industrious fleas;For bachelors they would do very fine,Or three in a bunch for a pawnbroker’s sign;They’d pay very well to boil down for grease,Or they would make some good beds for the country police.If the chignons were gathered, it would be a treatTo see them made use of for pitching the street,Or perhaps they would do, either black, red, or brown,To fill up the quaries about the —— Downs:If the Volunteers had them they’d make cannon balls.And tell —— enemies to look out for squalls,If a foe should come here to do us a wrong,They’d get blow’d to old Nick with a charge of chignons.The poor cows and horses will welcome the change,And pigs with their bristles on freely will range,No more county crops for the women in jails,Nor donkeys lamenting the loss of their tails.No more bags of sawdust to way down your heads,Nor rags tied in bundles as big as a bed,The ladies declare that the fashion is gone,They’ve clapp’d the bumbailiffs on all the chignons.

You lasses of —— come list to my song,

’Tis concerning the fate of the fancy chignon;

The ladies of Paris are determined ’tis said,

To wear their own hair at the back of their head.

They have given o’er wearing such queer looking lumps

Of nasty old rubbish screw’d up in great bumps,

To cast them adrift they have made up their minds,

To be ugly for ever they don’t feel inclined.

CHORUS.

The Chignons are going we’re happy to hear,From the young Ladies they must now disappear,They are not in the fashion and soon must be gone,It’s all up the spout with the saucy chignon.

The Chignons are going we’re happy to hear,

From the young Ladies they must now disappear,

They are not in the fashion and soon must be gone,

It’s all up the spout with the saucy chignon.

’Tis a good job they’re going, for the darling young girlsI am sure would look better in natural curls;Madame Rachel has worn such a wopper ’tis said,She is quite bandy-leg’d thro’ the weight of her head:Girls that want to be married before Whitsuntide,Pull off your Chignons and throw them aside,If you practice economy you’ll find it true,That a fancy chignon will make bustles for two.

’Tis a good job they’re going, for the darling young girls

I am sure would look better in natural curls;

Madame Rachel has worn such a wopper ’tis said,

She is quite bandy-leg’d thro’ the weight of her head:

Girls that want to be married before Whitsuntide,

Pull off your Chignons and throw them aside,

If you practice economy you’ll find it true,

That a fancy chignon will make bustles for two.

Those buxon old ladies who like to be gay,At the change in the fashions are out of the way,For with wig and chignon they all come the grand,Tho’ their heads are as bald as the palm of my hand.The ladies at first will feel rather strange,They will get light-headed I hope by the change,It will seem rather awkward at first I suppose,To wear hats on their heads now, instead of their nose.

Those buxon old ladies who like to be gay,

At the change in the fashions are out of the way,

For with wig and chignon they all come the grand,

Tho’ their heads are as bald as the palm of my hand.

The ladies at first will feel rather strange,

They will get light-headed I hope by the change,

It will seem rather awkward at first I suppose,

To wear hats on their heads now, instead of their nose.

Now what’s to be done with the left off chignons,They are sure to amount to some millions of tons!To set them on fire would make all the world sneeze,And slaughter some thousand industrious fleas;For bachelors they would do very fine,Or three in a bunch for a pawnbroker’s sign;They’d pay very well to boil down for grease,Or they would make some good beds for the country police.

Now what’s to be done with the left off chignons,

They are sure to amount to some millions of tons!

To set them on fire would make all the world sneeze,

And slaughter some thousand industrious fleas;

For bachelors they would do very fine,

Or three in a bunch for a pawnbroker’s sign;

They’d pay very well to boil down for grease,

Or they would make some good beds for the country police.

If the chignons were gathered, it would be a treatTo see them made use of for pitching the street,Or perhaps they would do, either black, red, or brown,To fill up the quaries about the —— Downs:If the Volunteers had them they’d make cannon balls.And tell —— enemies to look out for squalls,If a foe should come here to do us a wrong,They’d get blow’d to old Nick with a charge of chignons.

If the chignons were gathered, it would be a treat

To see them made use of for pitching the street,

Or perhaps they would do, either black, red, or brown,

To fill up the quaries about the —— Downs:

If the Volunteers had them they’d make cannon balls.

And tell —— enemies to look out for squalls,

If a foe should come here to do us a wrong,

They’d get blow’d to old Nick with a charge of chignons.

The poor cows and horses will welcome the change,And pigs with their bristles on freely will range,No more county crops for the women in jails,Nor donkeys lamenting the loss of their tails.No more bags of sawdust to way down your heads,Nor rags tied in bundles as big as a bed,The ladies declare that the fashion is gone,They’ve clapp’d the bumbailiffs on all the chignons.

The poor cows and horses will welcome the change,

And pigs with their bristles on freely will range,

No more county crops for the women in jails,

Nor donkeys lamenting the loss of their tails.

No more bags of sawdust to way down your heads,

Nor rags tied in bundles as big as a bed,

The ladies declare that the fashion is gone,

They’ve clapp’d the bumbailiffs on all the chignons.

London:—H. SUCH, Machine Printer and Publisher, 177, Union Street, Borough, S.E.

Queer sights we every day do find,As the world we pass along,The ladies hoops and crinolines,And then their large chignons;To come out in French fashion,Of course we must indeed,And have a dandy horse,—The famed Velocipede.The dandy horse Velocipede,Like lightning flies, I vow, sir,It licks the railroad in its speed,By fifty miles an hour, sir,The lasses of the period,Will cut along so fine,With their hair just like a donkey’s tail,A hanging down behind;Upon a dandy horse will go,And behind them footman John,Whose duty will be to cry, gee-wo!And hold on their chignon.The Velocipedes are all the go,In country and in town,The patent dandy hobby-horseIt every where goes down;A wheel before and one behind,Its back is long and narrow,It’s a cross between the treading mill,And a Razor Grinder’s barrow.All the world will mount velocipedes,Oh wont there be a showOf swells out of Belgravia,In famous Rotten Row;Tattersall’s they will forsake,To go there they have no need,They will patronise the wheel wright’s nowFor a famed Velocipede,All kinds of VelocipedesWill shortly be in use,The snob will have one like a last,The tailor like a goose!Bill Gladstone he will have one,To ride, so-help-me bob,The head will be the Irish Church,The tail Ben Dizzy’s nobOld Sal Brown to her husband saidThere is no use of talking,I must have a dandy hobby-horse,For I am tired of rocking;Your leather breeches I will spout,And send you bare on Monday,If I don’t have a VelocipedeTo ride to church on Sundays.What will the poor horse-dealers do,I am sure I cannot tell,Since the dandy horses have come upTheir horses they can’t sell;Oh, won’t the cats and clogs be glad,Their grub they will get cheap,Or else it will be all bought upTo sell for Paupers’ beef.The Velocipedes are rode by swells,Tinkers too and tailors,They will be mounted, too, by the police,The soldiers and the sailors;An old lady who lives in ——At least the story goes, sir,Is a going to race the omnibus,All down the —— road, sir,The railways they will be done brown,The steamboats too, beside,For folks when they go out of town,The Velocipedes will ride;But I’d have you look out for squallsOr else you may depend,You will go down, dandy horse and all,And bruise your latter-end.

Queer sights we every day do find,

As the world we pass along,

The ladies hoops and crinolines,

And then their large chignons;

To come out in French fashion,

Of course we must indeed,

And have a dandy horse,—

The famed Velocipede.

The dandy horse Velocipede,Like lightning flies, I vow, sir,It licks the railroad in its speed,By fifty miles an hour, sir,

The dandy horse Velocipede,

Like lightning flies, I vow, sir,

It licks the railroad in its speed,

By fifty miles an hour, sir,

The lasses of the period,Will cut along so fine,With their hair just like a donkey’s tail,A hanging down behind;Upon a dandy horse will go,And behind them footman John,Whose duty will be to cry, gee-wo!And hold on their chignon.

The lasses of the period,

Will cut along so fine,

With their hair just like a donkey’s tail,

A hanging down behind;

Upon a dandy horse will go,

And behind them footman John,

Whose duty will be to cry, gee-wo!

And hold on their chignon.

The Velocipedes are all the go,In country and in town,The patent dandy hobby-horseIt every where goes down;A wheel before and one behind,Its back is long and narrow,It’s a cross between the treading mill,And a Razor Grinder’s barrow.

The Velocipedes are all the go,

In country and in town,

The patent dandy hobby-horse

It every where goes down;

A wheel before and one behind,

Its back is long and narrow,

It’s a cross between the treading mill,

And a Razor Grinder’s barrow.

All the world will mount velocipedes,Oh wont there be a showOf swells out of Belgravia,In famous Rotten Row;Tattersall’s they will forsake,To go there they have no need,They will patronise the wheel wright’s nowFor a famed Velocipede,

All the world will mount velocipedes,

Oh wont there be a show

Of swells out of Belgravia,

In famous Rotten Row;

Tattersall’s they will forsake,

To go there they have no need,

They will patronise the wheel wright’s now

For a famed Velocipede,

All kinds of VelocipedesWill shortly be in use,The snob will have one like a last,The tailor like a goose!Bill Gladstone he will have one,To ride, so-help-me bob,The head will be the Irish Church,The tail Ben Dizzy’s nob

All kinds of Velocipedes

Will shortly be in use,

The snob will have one like a last,

The tailor like a goose!

Bill Gladstone he will have one,

To ride, so-help-me bob,

The head will be the Irish Church,

The tail Ben Dizzy’s nob

Old Sal Brown to her husband saidThere is no use of talking,I must have a dandy hobby-horse,For I am tired of rocking;Your leather breeches I will spout,And send you bare on Monday,If I don’t have a VelocipedeTo ride to church on Sundays.

Old Sal Brown to her husband said

There is no use of talking,

I must have a dandy hobby-horse,

For I am tired of rocking;

Your leather breeches I will spout,

And send you bare on Monday,

If I don’t have a Velocipede

To ride to church on Sundays.

What will the poor horse-dealers do,I am sure I cannot tell,Since the dandy horses have come upTheir horses they can’t sell;Oh, won’t the cats and clogs be glad,Their grub they will get cheap,Or else it will be all bought upTo sell for Paupers’ beef.

What will the poor horse-dealers do,

I am sure I cannot tell,

Since the dandy horses have come up

Their horses they can’t sell;

Oh, won’t the cats and clogs be glad,

Their grub they will get cheap,

Or else it will be all bought up

To sell for Paupers’ beef.

The Velocipedes are rode by swells,Tinkers too and tailors,They will be mounted, too, by the police,The soldiers and the sailors;An old lady who lives in ——At least the story goes, sir,Is a going to race the omnibus,All down the —— road, sir,

The Velocipedes are rode by swells,

Tinkers too and tailors,

They will be mounted, too, by the police,

The soldiers and the sailors;

An old lady who lives in ——

At least the story goes, sir,

Is a going to race the omnibus,

All down the —— road, sir,

The railways they will be done brown,The steamboats too, beside,For folks when they go out of town,The Velocipedes will ride;But I’d have you look out for squallsOr else you may depend,You will go down, dandy horse and all,And bruise your latter-end.

The railways they will be done brown,

The steamboats too, beside,

For folks when they go out of town,

The Velocipedes will ride;

But I’d have you look out for squalls

Or else you may depend,

You will go down, dandy horse and all,

And bruise your latter-end.

Disley, Printer, 57, High street, St. Giles, London.

Now all you gay people, be off in a jiffy,To see this grand sight in London city,If you do not go, it will be a pity,Such a beautiful Lord Mayor’s Show;If my Lord Mayor should give up the old coach,In an old dung cart he will approach,As sleek as an eel, as sly as a roach,Such a big bellied man is the mayor.Ride a cock horse to old Charing Cross,To see the Lord Mayor on an old horse,But where is the Mayoress we are at a loss,Such a beautiful Lord Mayor’s Show.The Queen won’t be there, as I am sinner,She has gone to Scotland to get a dinner,Scotch oatmeal and burgoo, to make her thinner,So much for Vickey our Queen.To travel the highlands her little feet itches,To see them big men without any breeches,With such fine looking fellows with big legs to match it,They would look very well at the show.Here comes the lady, we thought not so fast,By the side of the Night Mayor on a jackass;Her head through Temple Bar cannot pass, sir,Something new at the Lord Mayor’s Show.Then the old watermen, wicked old sinners,One eye on the Mayor and one on their dinner,As for the mock birds, they’re wonderful thinner,So make haste to the Lord Mayor’s Show.As for Old Lawrence his hopes is all blighted.A few weeks ago he was quite delighted,He thought he was going to be knighted,He’ll look like a pig at the New Cattle Show.They go on the bridge instead of going under,Perhaps dance on the viaduct, or else it’s a wonder,Gog and Magog won’t stand it, they bawlout like thunder,And weep for the good old show.God bless the Queen, for her we may mourn,But we think she might give England a turn,And then perhaps she might something learnBy going to the Lord Mayor’s show.Such sights as these enliven the nation,Puts trade into hands, and keeps off starvation;And every man ought to have a good situation,So to visit the Lord Mayor’s show.Some is fond of a load of oatmeal & cabbages,Some take a delight in the bare legg’d savages,While England crime and poverty ravages,So welcome the Lord Mayor’s show.

Now all you gay people, be off in a jiffy,

To see this grand sight in London city,

If you do not go, it will be a pity,

Such a beautiful Lord Mayor’s Show;

If my Lord Mayor should give up the old coach,

In an old dung cart he will approach,

As sleek as an eel, as sly as a roach,

Such a big bellied man is the mayor.

Ride a cock horse to old Charing Cross,To see the Lord Mayor on an old horse,But where is the Mayoress we are at a loss,Such a beautiful Lord Mayor’s Show.

Ride a cock horse to old Charing Cross,

To see the Lord Mayor on an old horse,

But where is the Mayoress we are at a loss,

Such a beautiful Lord Mayor’s Show.

The Queen won’t be there, as I am sinner,She has gone to Scotland to get a dinner,Scotch oatmeal and burgoo, to make her thinner,So much for Vickey our Queen.To travel the highlands her little feet itches,To see them big men without any breeches,With such fine looking fellows with big legs to match it,They would look very well at the show.

The Queen won’t be there, as I am sinner,

She has gone to Scotland to get a dinner,

Scotch oatmeal and burgoo, to make her thinner,

So much for Vickey our Queen.

To travel the highlands her little feet itches,

To see them big men without any breeches,

With such fine looking fellows with big legs to match it,

They would look very well at the show.

Here comes the lady, we thought not so fast,By the side of the Night Mayor on a jackass;Her head through Temple Bar cannot pass, sir,Something new at the Lord Mayor’s Show.Then the old watermen, wicked old sinners,One eye on the Mayor and one on their dinner,As for the mock birds, they’re wonderful thinner,So make haste to the Lord Mayor’s Show.

Here comes the lady, we thought not so fast,

By the side of the Night Mayor on a jackass;

Her head through Temple Bar cannot pass, sir,

Something new at the Lord Mayor’s Show.

Then the old watermen, wicked old sinners,

One eye on the Mayor and one on their dinner,

As for the mock birds, they’re wonderful thinner,

So make haste to the Lord Mayor’s Show.

As for Old Lawrence his hopes is all blighted.A few weeks ago he was quite delighted,He thought he was going to be knighted,He’ll look like a pig at the New Cattle Show.They go on the bridge instead of going under,Perhaps dance on the viaduct, or else it’s a wonder,Gog and Magog won’t stand it, they bawlout like thunder,And weep for the good old show.

As for Old Lawrence his hopes is all blighted.

A few weeks ago he was quite delighted,

He thought he was going to be knighted,

He’ll look like a pig at the New Cattle Show.

They go on the bridge instead of going under,

Perhaps dance on the viaduct, or else it’s a wonder,

Gog and Magog won’t stand it, they bawl

out like thunder,

And weep for the good old show.

God bless the Queen, for her we may mourn,But we think she might give England a turn,And then perhaps she might something learnBy going to the Lord Mayor’s show.Such sights as these enliven the nation,Puts trade into hands, and keeps off starvation;And every man ought to have a good situation,So to visit the Lord Mayor’s show.

God bless the Queen, for her we may mourn,

But we think she might give England a turn,

And then perhaps she might something learn

By going to the Lord Mayor’s show.

Such sights as these enliven the nation,

Puts trade into hands, and keeps off starvation;

And every man ought to have a good situation,

So to visit the Lord Mayor’s show.

Some is fond of a load of oatmeal & cabbages,Some take a delight in the bare legg’d savages,While England crime and poverty ravages,So welcome the Lord Mayor’s show.

Some is fond of a load of oatmeal & cabbages,

Some take a delight in the bare legg’d savages,

While England crime and poverty ravages,

So welcome the Lord Mayor’s show.

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles’s.

Come lads and lasses, be up in a jiffy,The Queen is about to visit the City,That her visits are so scarce, we think it a pity,She will open the Viaduct and Bridge.With the Lord Mayor Elect like a porpoise,Big round as an elephant is his old corpus,To see this great sight nothing shall stop us,Gog and Magog shall dance with the Queen.Oh dear, what can the matter be,The Queen she is coming on a velocipede,How nicely she treads it with high heels and buckles.—She will open the Viaduct and Bridge.The Mayor, Mr Lawrence will take off his hat,He would like to be Whittington without the cat,There’s old Alderman Besley, all blubber and fat,They are going to welcome the Queen,Girls of the period, of every station,With hair down their backs of all occupations,That would frighten Old Nick out of this nation,It’s all just to please our good Queen.All the good clothes that is got upon tally,They’ll put on this day as they look at the valley,Dusty Bob, Tom, and Jem, and African Sally,These bye-gones will visit the Queen.All the old horses will jump for joy,’Twas up Holborn Hill that did them annoy,I remember truck dragging when I was a boy,Good luck to the Viaduct and Bridge.There will be all nations ashore and afloat,Old Jack Atcheler will cut his throat,No horses are killed, no cat’s meat afloat,All through this great Viaduct and Bridge.The cabman will dance in every passage,Cow Cross is done up, you wont get a sassage,You can travel the Viaduct like a telegraph message,Now they’ve opened the Viaduct & Bridge.The banners and flags will go in rotation,Emblems of things of every nation,The workmen of England and emigration,And old Besley fighting for Mayor.Lawrence is down as flat as a flounder,On his belly stands the trumpet type founder,The Aldermen in rotation playing at rounder,When they open the Viaduct and Bridge.Next comes the Queen, so pretty indeed,How nicely she sits on the velocipede,With high heels and buckles she treads with ease,She’s getting quite young is our Queen.That Alderman Salomon out of the lane,He holds up so stately poor Vickey’s train,Prince of Wales and Prince Tick will come if they can,Just to open the Viaduct and Bridge.Horses and donkeys will caper like fleas,No more sore shoulders and broken knees,The animal Society may take their ease,Good-bye to the once Holborn Hill.

Come lads and lasses, be up in a jiffy,

The Queen is about to visit the City,

That her visits are so scarce, we think it a pity,

She will open the Viaduct and Bridge.

With the Lord Mayor Elect like a porpoise,

Big round as an elephant is his old corpus,

To see this great sight nothing shall stop us,

Gog and Magog shall dance with the Queen.

Oh dear, what can the matter be,The Queen she is coming on a velocipede,How nicely she treads it with high heels and buckles.—She will open the Viaduct and Bridge.

Oh dear, what can the matter be,

The Queen she is coming on a velocipede,

How nicely she treads it with high heels and buckles.—

She will open the Viaduct and Bridge.

The Mayor, Mr Lawrence will take off his hat,He would like to be Whittington without the cat,There’s old Alderman Besley, all blubber and fat,They are going to welcome the Queen,Girls of the period, of every station,With hair down their backs of all occupations,That would frighten Old Nick out of this nation,It’s all just to please our good Queen.

The Mayor, Mr Lawrence will take off his hat,

He would like to be Whittington without the cat,

There’s old Alderman Besley, all blubber and fat,

They are going to welcome the Queen,

Girls of the period, of every station,

With hair down their backs of all occupations,

That would frighten Old Nick out of this nation,

It’s all just to please our good Queen.

All the good clothes that is got upon tally,They’ll put on this day as they look at the valley,Dusty Bob, Tom, and Jem, and African Sally,These bye-gones will visit the Queen.All the old horses will jump for joy,’Twas up Holborn Hill that did them annoy,I remember truck dragging when I was a boy,Good luck to the Viaduct and Bridge.

All the good clothes that is got upon tally,

They’ll put on this day as they look at the valley,

Dusty Bob, Tom, and Jem, and African Sally,

These bye-gones will visit the Queen.

All the old horses will jump for joy,

’Twas up Holborn Hill that did them annoy,

I remember truck dragging when I was a boy,

Good luck to the Viaduct and Bridge.

There will be all nations ashore and afloat,Old Jack Atcheler will cut his throat,No horses are killed, no cat’s meat afloat,All through this great Viaduct and Bridge.The cabman will dance in every passage,Cow Cross is done up, you wont get a sassage,You can travel the Viaduct like a telegraph message,Now they’ve opened the Viaduct & Bridge.

There will be all nations ashore and afloat,

Old Jack Atcheler will cut his throat,

No horses are killed, no cat’s meat afloat,

All through this great Viaduct and Bridge.

The cabman will dance in every passage,

Cow Cross is done up, you wont get a sassage,

You can travel the Viaduct like a telegraph message,

Now they’ve opened the Viaduct & Bridge.

The banners and flags will go in rotation,Emblems of things of every nation,The workmen of England and emigration,And old Besley fighting for Mayor.Lawrence is down as flat as a flounder,On his belly stands the trumpet type founder,The Aldermen in rotation playing at rounder,When they open the Viaduct and Bridge.

The banners and flags will go in rotation,

Emblems of things of every nation,

The workmen of England and emigration,

And old Besley fighting for Mayor.

Lawrence is down as flat as a flounder,

On his belly stands the trumpet type founder,

The Aldermen in rotation playing at rounder,

When they open the Viaduct and Bridge.

Next comes the Queen, so pretty indeed,How nicely she sits on the velocipede,With high heels and buckles she treads with ease,She’s getting quite young is our Queen.That Alderman Salomon out of the lane,He holds up so stately poor Vickey’s train,Prince of Wales and Prince Tick will come if they can,Just to open the Viaduct and Bridge.

Next comes the Queen, so pretty indeed,

How nicely she sits on the velocipede,

With high heels and buckles she treads with ease,

She’s getting quite young is our Queen.

That Alderman Salomon out of the lane,

He holds up so stately poor Vickey’s train,

Prince of Wales and Prince Tick will come if they can,

Just to open the Viaduct and Bridge.

Horses and donkeys will caper like fleas,No more sore shoulders and broken knees,The animal Society may take their ease,Good-bye to the once Holborn Hill.

Horses and donkeys will caper like fleas,

No more sore shoulders and broken knees,

The animal Society may take their ease,

Good-bye to the once Holborn Hill.

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.

Oh dear, what a fuss and a bother,From one end of this great city bang to the other,The Cabmen all say they shall live in cloverNow they have the Free-trade in cabs;This Act, it is Bruce’s, the Home Secretary,And it came into force the 1st of February,That his ideas are grand, of course you’ll say very,Especially the dodge of the Flags!Oh my, is there not an uproarAbout the new regulations of Bruce’s New Cab Law,First the Cabby’s, the badge, like schoolboys they wear now,Now it’s a Flag and a Ticket for Soup!The Cab-horses now at their good luck are laughing,To think their nose bags will have more corn and chaff in,And cock up their noses as by us they’re passing,Saying, what do you think of our Flags?The phillibeloo of the Cab-strike, I’ll never forget ye,Nor who brought out the Badge, oh no, what a pity?Or the Cabman’s best friend, poor lamented dear Dickey,But he never thought of the Flags!They must mount their banners up in the air, sir,Nor stir from the rank till hail’d by a fare, sir,And dub up their Tickets, its true I declare, sir,Yes, that is the rules of the Act.To see their Flags stuck up, it’s strange for to see now,Like those that they stick on a Christmas tree, now,They’re stuck full of letters and on it just see now,You can ride just for sixpence a mile!Now a man and his wife in the old fashioned manner,Could ride side by side just a mile for a tannerAnd two or three kids besides they could cram there,But now it’s just two for a bob;For a young one in napkins, it’s true what I tell you,Is considered a person, though a small one, it is true,Butt, a pot-bellied Alderman is counted as two, now,To help them to pay for the Flags!Now the Act is in force, I should not at all wonderThat dustmen and nightmen and costermongersWill apply for a license and take out a numberAnd mount on their foreheads a flag;And the people they shout, tho’ it’s really too bad, sir,As over the stones they go with their cabs, sir,I say, old pal, I’ll have your flag,And where is your ticket for soup.Now cabs of all kinds they must be inspectedTo see that no sand cracks are in them detectedAnd all the shofle shofles they will be rejectedNow won’t they look after the flags.Now I think of the Act to say more it no use is,They’ll rechristen the cabs, & stand no excuses,There’ll be no four wheelers or hansoms, they’ll all be called Bruce’s,Tho’ it does not say so in the act.

Oh dear, what a fuss and a bother,From one end of this great city bang to the other,The Cabmen all say they shall live in cloverNow they have the Free-trade in cabs;

Oh dear, what a fuss and a bother,

From one end of this great city bang to the other,

The Cabmen all say they shall live in clover

Now they have the Free-trade in cabs;

This Act, it is Bruce’s, the Home Secretary,And it came into force the 1st of February,That his ideas are grand, of course you’ll say very,Especially the dodge of the Flags!

This Act, it is Bruce’s, the Home Secretary,

And it came into force the 1st of February,

That his ideas are grand, of course you’ll say very,

Especially the dodge of the Flags!

Oh my, is there not an uproarAbout the new regulations of Bruce’s New Cab Law,First the Cabby’s, the badge, like schoolboys they wear now,Now it’s a Flag and a Ticket for Soup!

Oh my, is there not an uproar

About the new regulations of Bruce’s New Cab Law,

First the Cabby’s, the badge, like schoolboys they wear now,

Now it’s a Flag and a Ticket for Soup!

The Cab-horses now at their good luck are laughing,To think their nose bags will have more corn and chaff in,And cock up their noses as by us they’re passing,Saying, what do you think of our Flags?

The Cab-horses now at their good luck are laughing,

To think their nose bags will have more corn and chaff in,

And cock up their noses as by us they’re passing,

Saying, what do you think of our Flags?

The phillibeloo of the Cab-strike, I’ll never forget ye,Nor who brought out the Badge, oh no, what a pity?Or the Cabman’s best friend, poor lamented dear Dickey,But he never thought of the Flags!

The phillibeloo of the Cab-strike, I’ll never forget ye,

Nor who brought out the Badge, oh no, what a pity?

Or the Cabman’s best friend, poor lamented dear Dickey,

But he never thought of the Flags!

They must mount their banners up in the air, sir,Nor stir from the rank till hail’d by a fare, sir,And dub up their Tickets, its true I declare, sir,Yes, that is the rules of the Act.

They must mount their banners up in the air, sir,

Nor stir from the rank till hail’d by a fare, sir,

And dub up their Tickets, its true I declare, sir,

Yes, that is the rules of the Act.

To see their Flags stuck up, it’s strange for to see now,Like those that they stick on a Christmas tree, now,They’re stuck full of letters and on it just see now,You can ride just for sixpence a mile!

To see their Flags stuck up, it’s strange for to see now,

Like those that they stick on a Christmas tree, now,

They’re stuck full of letters and on it just see now,

You can ride just for sixpence a mile!

Now a man and his wife in the old fashioned manner,Could ride side by side just a mile for a tannerAnd two or three kids besides they could cram there,But now it’s just two for a bob;

Now a man and his wife in the old fashioned manner,

Could ride side by side just a mile for a tanner

And two or three kids besides they could cram there,

But now it’s just two for a bob;

For a young one in napkins, it’s true what I tell you,Is considered a person, though a small one, it is true,Butt, a pot-bellied Alderman is counted as two, now,To help them to pay for the Flags!

For a young one in napkins, it’s true what I tell you,

Is considered a person, though a small one, it is true,

Butt, a pot-bellied Alderman is counted as two, now,

To help them to pay for the Flags!

Now the Act is in force, I should not at all wonderThat dustmen and nightmen and costermongersWill apply for a license and take out a numberAnd mount on their foreheads a flag;

Now the Act is in force, I should not at all wonder

That dustmen and nightmen and costermongers

Will apply for a license and take out a number

And mount on their foreheads a flag;

And the people they shout, tho’ it’s really too bad, sir,As over the stones they go with their cabs, sir,I say, old pal, I’ll have your flag,And where is your ticket for soup.

And the people they shout, tho’ it’s really too bad, sir,

As over the stones they go with their cabs, sir,

I say, old pal, I’ll have your flag,

And where is your ticket for soup.

Now cabs of all kinds they must be inspectedTo see that no sand cracks are in them detectedAnd all the shofle shofles they will be rejectedNow won’t they look after the flags.

Now cabs of all kinds they must be inspected

To see that no sand cracks are in them detected

And all the shofle shofles they will be rejected

Now won’t they look after the flags.

Now I think of the Act to say more it no use is,They’ll rechristen the cabs, & stand no excuses,There’ll be no four wheelers or hansoms, they’ll all be called Bruce’s,Tho’ it does not say so in the act.

Now I think of the Act to say more it no use is,

They’ll rechristen the cabs, & stand no excuses,

There’ll be no four wheelers or hansoms, they’ll all be called Bruce’s,

Tho’ it does not say so in the act.

Disley, Printer, High Street, St. Giles’s.

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