Volume 25 — THE EXCHANGE CHIMES.
Reading edition
Mr. Punch is happy to announce that the difficulties which have so long prevented the Royal Exchange Chimes from being completed have been removed, and that the following airs, appropriate to the present condition of City politics, will immediately be heard from the Gresham tower. The contractor gives hopes that the new year will be played in by them.
The Days of other Mayors.
Air.—"The Light of other Days."
The days of other Mayors have faded, And Aldermen are past; The Cit who hopes to do as they did, Is hoping much too fast. For London dooms the clique to ruin. She'll mind her own affairs; And the Mansion House see no renewing The days of other Mayors.
Those Gresham Chimes.
Air.—"Evening Bells."
Those Gresham Chimes, those Gresham Chimes! They take us back to Tudor times, When Merchant Princes felt no shame To bear a civic magnate's name.
That name has sunk below disdain, No Gresham dons the civic chain, A Merchant Prince as soon would wear The garb of Beadle as of Mayor.
But Mayors and such will soon be gone, A new régime is coming on; We'll hope to hear, in better times, Some Gresham hailed by Gresham Chimes.
The Curfew.
Air.—"The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day."
The Curfew tolls the knell of those whose day Is done—those greedy "creatures on our lee"— Woe to the burly phalanx so au fait At hiding callipash and callipee. E'en Gog himself looks lively with affright, And Magog scarce his spike-stuck weapon holds; For Cornewall Lewis sits, prepared to write, And Patteson an awful scroll unfolds.
Lament of Lord Mayor's Day.
Air.—"Woodpecker."
I knew by the smile that derisively curled On the Patteson lip, that my downfall was near, When he said, "I can't see the least use in the world Of that gew-gaw procession you mount every year." My half-hearted advocate feebly replied, About wantonly sapping the customs of yore— But I said, "If there's peace to be found in Cheapside, I shan't be disturbing it many times more."
What do the Bells say?
The people want gardens, Says the bells of St. Martin's. Townsfolk look palely, Says the bells of Old Bailey. Not if they're rich, Says the bells of Shoreditch. Then they come out to me, Says the bells of Chelsea. Or with me take a bed, Says the bells of Hampstead. But in close London dwellins Says the bells of St. Helen's. How do they draw breath? Says the bells of St. Faith. Bless'd if I know. Says the Great Bell of Bow.