HORACE AND JAMES SMITH (continued 2)
Reading edition
Case No. III.
GEORGE BARNWELL.
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— Determined 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 on Your 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. 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 throng That follow'd 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 pruins and 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 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.
PUNCH'S APOTHEOSIS.
BY T. H.[55]
Rhymes the rudders are of verses, With which, like ships, they steer their courses. Hudibras.
Scene draws, and discovers Punch on a throne, surrounded by Lear, Lady Macbeth, Macbeth, Othello, George Barnwell, Hamlet, Ghost, Macheath, Juliet, Friar, Apothecary, Romeo, and Falstaff.—Punch descends, and addresses them in the following
Recitative.
As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is, So I with you am master of the ceremonies— These grand rejoicings. Let me see, how name ye 'em?— Oh, in Greek lingo 'tis E-pi-thalamium. October's tenth it is: toss up each hat to-day, And celebrate with shouts our opening Saturday! On this great night 'tis settled by our manager, That we, to please great Johnny Bull, should plan a jeer, Dance a bang-up theatrical cotillion, And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion; That every soul, whether or not a cough he has, May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus. So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini,[56] Spin up a teetotum like Angiolini;[57] That John and Mrs. Bull, from ale and tea-houses, May shout huzza for Punch's Apotheosis! They dance and sing. Air—'Sure such a day.' Tom Thumb. Lear. Dance, Regan! dance, with Cordelia and Goneril— Down the middle, up again, poussette, and cross; Stop, Cordelia! do not tread upon her heel, Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse. See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub, And t'other's clack, who pats her back, is louder far than hell's hubbub. They tweak my nose, and round it goes—I fear they'll break the ridge of it, Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the bridge of it.[58] Omnes. Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza! Lady Macbeth. I kill'd the king; my husband is a heavy dunce; He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the stud. One loves long gloves; for mittens, like king's evidence, Let truth with the fingers out, and won't hide blood. Macbeth. When spoonys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery, To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry; With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the use of her, Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by Lucifer. Omnes. Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza! Othello. Wife, come to life, forgive what your black lover did, Spit the feathers from your mouth, and munch roast beef; Iago he may go and be toss'd in the coverlid That smother'd you, because you pawn'd my handkerchief. George Barnwell. Why, neger, so eager about your rib immaculate? Milwood shows for hanging us they've got an ugly knack o' late; If on beauty 'stead of duty but one peeper bent he sees, Satan waits with Dolly baits to hook in us apprentices. Omnes. Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza! Hamlet. I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and perihelia The moon can fix, which lunatics makes sharp or flat. I stuck by ill luck, enamour'd of Ophelia, Old Polony like a sausage, and exclaim'd, 'Rat, rat!' Ghost. Let Gertrude sup the poison'd cup—no more I'll be an actor in Such sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing. Macheath. I'll Polly it, and folly it, and dance it quite the dandy O; But as for tunes, I have but one, and that is Drops of Brandy O. Omnes. Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza! Juliet. I'm Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of hellebore— A hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall. Friar. And I am the friar, who so corpulent a belly bore. Apothecary. And that is why poor skinny I have none at all. Romeo. I'm the resurrection-man, of buried bodies amorous. Falstaff. I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous; For though my paunch is round and stanch, I ne'er begin to feel it ere I Feel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military. Omnes. Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza! [Exeunt dancing.
'"Punch's Apotheosis," by G. Colman, junior, is too purely nonsensical to be extracted; and both gives less pleasure to the reader, and does less justice to the ingenious author in whose name it stands, than any other of the poetical imitations.'—Edinburgh Review.
'We have no conjectures to offer as to the anonymous author of this amusing little volume. He who is such a master of disguises may easily be supposed to have been successful in concealing himself, and, with the power of assuming so many styles, is not likely to be detected by his own. We should guess, however, that he had not written a great deal in his own character—that his natural style was neither very lofty nor very grave—and that he rather indulges a partiality for puns and verbal pleasantries. We marvel why he has shut out Campbell and Rogers from his theatre of living poets, and confidently expect to have our curiosity in this and in all other particulars very speedily gratified, when the applause of the country shall induce him to take off his mask.'—Edinburgh Review.
The Morning Post.
Additional note intended for p. 61.—This journal was, at the period in question, rather remarkable for the use of the figure called by the rhetoricians catachresis. The Bard of Avon may be quoted in justification of its adoption, when he writes of taking arms against a sea, and seeking a bubble in the mouth of a cannon. The Morning Post, in the year 1812, congratulated its readers upon having stripped off Cobbett's mask and discovered his cloven foot; adding, that it was high time to give the hydra-head of Faction a rap on the knuckles!