II. THE BABY’S DEBUT. [5a]

My brother Jack was nine in May, [5b] And I was eight on New-year’s-day; So in Kate Wilson’s shop Papa (he’s my papa and Jack’s) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top.

Jack’s in the pouts, and this it is,— He thinks mine came to more than his; So to my drawer he goes, Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars! He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top’s peg, And bang, with might and main, Its head against the parlour-door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite Well, let him cry, it serves him right. A pretty thing, forsooth! If he’s to melt, all scalding hot, Half my doll’s nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top’s tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, “O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury-Lane for you to-day!” And while papa said, “Pooh, she may!” Mamma said, “No, she sha’n’t!”

Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney coach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopp’d it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom.

My uncle’s porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam:) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise along the flags, And leaves me where I am.

My father’s walls are made of brick, But not so tall, and not so thick As these; and, goodness me! My father’s beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see.

What a large floor! ’tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won’t hide it, I’ll be bound; And there’s a row of lamps!—my eye How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing, And kept away; but Mr. Thing- um bob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, “Go on, my pretty love; Speak to ’em, little Nan.

“You’ve only got to curtsey, whisp- er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp, And then you’re sure to take: I’ve known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; [8] Then why not Nancy Lake?”

But while I’m speaking, where’s papa? And where’s my aunt? and where’s mamma? Where’s Jack? O, there they sit! They smile, they nod; I’ll go my ways, And order round poor Billy’s chaise, To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show; So, bidding you adieu, I curtsey, like a pretty miss, And if you’ll blow to me a kiss, I’ll blow a kiss to you.

“This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked.”

What You Will.

What stately vision mocks my waking sense? Hence, dear delusion, sweet enchantment, hence! Ha! is it real?—can my doubts be vain? It is, it is, and Drury lives again! Around each grateful veteran attends, Eager to rush and gratulate his friends, Friends whose kind looks, retraced with proud delight, Endear the past, and make the future bright: Yes, generous patrons, your returning smile Blesses our toils, and consecrates our pile.

When last we met, Fate’s unrelenting hand Already grasped the devastating brand; Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize, Then burst resistless to the astonished skies. The glowing walls, disrobed of scenic pride, In trembling conflict stemmed the burning tide, Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall, Down rushed the thundering roof, and buried all!

Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung, And raptured thousands on their music hung, Where Wit and Wisdom shone, by Beauty graced, Sat lonely Silence, empress of the waste; And still had reigned—but he, whose voice can raise More magic wonders than Amphion’s lays, Bade jarring bands with friendly zeal engage To rear the prostrate glories of the stage. Up leaped the Muses at the potent spell, And Drury’s genius saw his temple swell; Worthy, we hope, the British Drama’s cause, Worthy of British arts, and your applause.

Guided by you, our earnest aims presume To renovate the Drama with the dome; The scenes of Shakespeare and our bards of old With due observance splendidly unfold, Yet raise and foster with parental hand The living talent of our native land. O! may we still, to sense and nature true, Delight the many, nor offend the few. Though varying tastes our changeful Drama claim, Still be its moral tendency the same, To win by precept, by example warn, To brand the front of Vice with pointed scorn, And Virtue’s smiling brows with votive wreaths adorn.

I.

Sated with home, of wife, of children tired, The restless soul is driven abroad to roam; [12b] Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired, The restless soul is driven to ramble home; Sated with both, beneath new Drury’s dome The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine, There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome, Scorning to view fantastic Columbine, Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine. [14]

II.

Ye reckless dopes, who hither wend your way To gaze on puppets in a painted dome, Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray, Like falling stars in life’s eternal gloom, What seek ye here? Joy’s evanescent bloom? Woe’s me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb. Man’s heart, the mournful urn o’er which they wave, Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.

III.

Has life so little store of real woes, That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief? Or is it that from truth such anguish flows, Ye court the lying drama for relief? Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief: Or if one tolerable page appears In folly’s volume, ’tis the actor’s leaf, Who dries his own by drawing others’ tears, And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years.

IV.

Albeit, how like Young Betty [15a] doth he flee! Light as the mote that daunceth in the beam, He liveth only in man’s present e’e; His life a flash, his memory a dream, Oblivious down he drops in Lethe’s stream. Yet what are they, the learned and the great? Awhile of longer wonderment the theme! Who shall presume to prophesy their date, Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate?

V.

This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt’s toil, Perchance than Holland’s edifice [15b] more fleet, Again red Lemnos’ artisan may spoil: The fire-alarm and midnight drum may beat, And all bestrewed ysmoking at your feet! Start ye? perchance Death’s angel may be sent Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat: And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent, May find, in pleasure’s fane, your grave and monument.

VI.

Your debts mount high—ye plunge in deeper waste; The tradesman duns—no warning voice ye hear; The plaintiff sues—to public shows ye haste; The bailiff threats—ye feel no idle fear. Who can arrest your prodigal career? Who can keep down the levity of youth? What sound can startle age’s stubborn ear? Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth Men true to falsehood’s voice, false to the voice of truth?

VII.

To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to make The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy, We dedicate the pile—arise! awake!— Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy Clear our new stage from reason’s dull alloy, Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth With cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy! While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth, [17] Harps twang in Drury’s walls, and make her boards a booth.

VIII.

For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March? And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl? And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch, Orlando’s helmet in Augustin’s cowl. Shakespeare, how true thine adage “fair is foul!” To him whose soul is with fruition fraught, The song of Braham is an Irish howl, Thinking is but an idle waste of thought, And nought is everything, and everything is nought.

IX.

Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above, Not laurel-crown’d, but clad in rusty black; Not spurring Pegasus through Tempè’s grove, But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack; What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack, Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long, Condemn’d to tread the bard’s time-sanction’d track, Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng, And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song.

X.

So fares the follower in the Muses’ train; He toils to starve, and only lives in death; We slight him, till our patronage is vain, Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe, And o’er his bones an empty requiem breathe— Oh! with what tragic horror would he start (Could he be conjured from the grave beneath) To find the stage again a Thespian cart, And elephants and colts down trampling Shakespeare’s art!

XI.

Hence, pedant Nature! with thy Grecian rules! Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface; Back, sister Muses, to your native schools; Here booted grooms usurp Apollo’s place, Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace, The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit, Man yields the drama to the Hou’yn’m race, His prompter spurs, his licenser the bit, The stage a stable-yard, a jockey-club the pit.

XII.

Is it for these ye rear this proud abode? Is it for these your superstition seeks To build a temple worthy of a god, To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks? Then be the stage, to recompense your freaks, A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks, Where Punch, the lignum-vitæ Roscius, squeaks, And Wisdom weeps, and Folly plays his pranks, And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he clanks.

I.

O why should our dull retrospective addresses Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire? Away with blue devils, away with distresses, And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!

II.

Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury, The richest to me is when woman is there; The question of houses I leave to the jury; The fairest to me is the house of the fair.

III.

When woman’s soft smile all our senses bewilders, And gilds, while it carves, her dear form on the heart, What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders? With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art?

IV.

How well would our actors attend to their duties, Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit, In lieu of you lamps, if a row of young beauties Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit?

V.

The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge By woman were pluck’d, and she still wears the prize, To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college— I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.

VI.

There too is the lash which, all statutes controlling, Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair; For man is the pupil, who, while her eye’s rolling, Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair.

VII.

Bloom, Theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile! And flourish, ye pillars, [26] as green as the rushes That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle!

VIII.

For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean, Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave, Whose sons, unaccustom’d to rebel commotion, Tho’ joyous, are sober—tho’ peaceful, are brave.

IX.

The shamrock their olive, swore foe to a quarrel, Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows; Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel, Which flourishes rapidly over their brows.

X.

O! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles Which each panting bosom indignantly names, Until not one goose at the capital cackles Against the grand question of Catholic claims.

XI.

And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffey Perchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoy, Hold the helm of the state, and dispense in a jiffy More fishes than ever he caught when a boy.

XII.

And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock, When bred to our bar shall be Gibbses and Garrows, Assume the silk gown, and discard the smock-frock.

XIII.

For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune, As Dian outshines each encircling star; And the spheres of the heavens could never have kept tune Till set to the music of Erin-go-bragh!

I am a blessed Glendoveer: [28b] ’Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear. Midnight, [28c] yet not a nose From Tower-hill to Piccadilly snored! Midnight, yet not a nose From Indra drew the essence of repose! See with what crimson fury, By Indra fann’d, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury

Tops of houses, blue with lead, Bend beneath the landlord’s tread. Master and ’prentice, serving-man and lord, Nailor and tailor, Grazier and brazier, Through streets and alleys pour’d— All, all abroad to gaze, And wonder at the blaze. Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee, Mounted on roof and chimney, [29a] The mighty roast, the mighty stew To see; As if the dismal view Were but to them a Brentford jubilee. Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phæton (By Greeks call’d Apollo [29b]), Hollow Sounds from thy harp proceed; Combustible as reed, The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs: From Drury’s top, dissever’d from thy pegs, Thou tumblest, Humblest, Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high; While, by thy somerset excited, fly Ten million Billion Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky. Now come the men of fire to quench the fires: To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run, Hope gallops first, and second Sun; On flying heel, See Hand-in-Hand O’ertake the band! View with what glowing wheel He nicks Phoenix! While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars— Drury Lane! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! They shout and they bellow again and again. All, all in vain! Water turns steam; Each blazing beam Hisses defiance to the eddying spout: It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! See, Drury Lane expires!

Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more, Shorn of his ray, Surya in durance lay: The workmen heard him shout, But thought it would not pay To dig him out. When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell, Solemn as lead, Judge of the dead, Sworn foe to witticism, By men call’d criticism, Came passing by that way: Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness! Behold the rival theatre! I’ve set O. P. at her, [31] Who, like a bull-dog bold, Growls and fastens on his hold. The many-headed rabble roar in madness; Thy rival staggers: come and spy her Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire. So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one, And crossing Russell Street, He placed him on his feet ’Neath Covent Garden dome. Sudden a sound, As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose: Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper, Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes, From the knobb’d bludgeon to the taper switch, [32] Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches; A sea of heads roll’d roaring in the pit; On paper wings O. P.’s Reclin’d in lettered ease; While shout and scoff, Ya! ya! off! off! Like thunderbolt on Surya’s ear-drum fell, And seemed to paint The savage oddities of Saint Bartholomew in hell.

Tears dimm’d the god of light— “Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight; Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick, Oh! bury me again in brick; Shall I on New Drury tremble, To be O. P.’d like Kemble? No, Better remain by rubbish guarded, Than thus hubbubish groan placarded; Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick, And bury me again in brick.” Obedient Yamen Answered, “Amen,” And did As he was bid.

There lay the buried god, and Time Seemed to decree eternity of lime; But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest Almighty Veeshnoo’s [34] adamantine breast: He, the preserver, ardent still To do whate’er he says he will, From South-hill wing’d his way, To raise the drooping lord of day. All earthly spells the busy one o’erpower’d; He treats with men of all conditions, Poets and players, tradesmen and musicians; Nay, even ventures To attack the renters, Old and new: A list he gets Of claims and debts, And deems nought done, while aught remains to do.

Yamen beheld, and wither’d at the sight; Long had he aim’d the sunbeam to control, For light was hateful to his soul: “Go on!” cried the hellish one, yellow with spite, “Go on!” cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen, “Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca’s queen, I’ll toil to undo every night.”

Ye sons of song, rejoice! Veeshnoo has still’d the jarring elements, The spheres hymn music; Again the god of day Peeps forth with trembling ray, Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine, And pours at intervals a strain divine. “I have an iron yet in the fire,” cried Yamen; “The vollied flame rides in my breath, My blast is elemental death; This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces; Ingross your deeds, assignments, leases, My breath shall every line erase Soon as I blow the blaze.”

The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor, And Yamen’s visage grows blanker and blanker; The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown, And Yamen’s cheek is a russety brown: Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds; The solicitor reads, And, merit of merit! Red wax and green ferret Are fixed at the foot of the deeds!

Yamen beheld and shiver’d; His finger and thumb were cramp’d; His ear by the flea in ’t was bitten, When he saw by the lawyer’s clerk written, Sealed and delivered, Being first duly stamped.

“Now for my turn!” the demon cries, and blows A blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose. Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend, Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell, Is judged in his turn; Parchment won’t burn! His schemes of vengeance are dissolved in air, Parchment won’t tear!!

Is it not written in the Himakoot book (That mighty Baly from Kehama took), “Who blows on pounce Must the Swerga renounce?” It is! it is! Yamen, thine hour is nigh: Like as an eagle claws an asp, Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp, And hurl’d him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls, Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain, Three times as high as Meru mountain, Which is Ninety-nine times as high as St. Paul’s.

Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew, [36] Who a durable grave meant To dig in the pavement Of Monument-yard: To earth by the laws of attraction he flew, And he fell, and he fell To the regions of hell; Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock, And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock, Like a pebble in Carisbrook well.

Now Veeshnoo turn’d round to a capering varlet, Array’d in blue and white and scarlet, And cried, “Oh! brown of slipper as of hat! Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!” He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth; When lo! upstarting into birth A fabric, gorgeous to behold, Outshone in elegance the old, And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, “Hail, playhouse mine!” Then, bending his head, to Surya he said, “Soon as thy maiden sister Di Caps with her copper lid the dark blue sky, And through the fissures of her clouded fan Peeps at the naughty monster man. Go mount yon edifice, And show thy steady face In renovated pride, More bright, more glorious than before!” But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge, Still smarted from his former singe; And to Veeshnoo replied, In a tone rather gruff, “No, thank you! one tumble’s enough!”

I.

Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting, Shade me with your azure wing; On Parnassus’ summit sitting, Aid me, Clio, while I sing.

II.

Softly slept the dome of Drury O’er the empyreal crest, When Alecto’s sister-fury Softly slumb’ring sunk to rest.

III.

Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely, Lags the lowly Lord of Fire, Cytherea yielding tamely To the Cyclops dark and dire.

IV.

Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness, Dulcet joys and sports of youth, Soon must yield to haughty sadness; Mercy holds the veil to Truth.

V.

See Erostratus the second Fires again Diana’s fane; By the Fates from Orcus beckon’d, Clouds envelope Drury Lane.

VI.

Lurid smoke and frank suspicion Hand in hand reluctant dance: While the God fulfils his mission, Chivalry, resign thy lance.

VII.

Hark! the engines blandly thunder, Fleecy clouds dishevell’d lie, And the firemen, mute with wonder, On the son of Saturn cry.

VIII.

See the bird of Ammon sailing, Perches on the engine’s peak, And, the Eagle firemen hailing, Soothes them with its bickering beak.

IX.

Juno saw, and mad with malice, Lost the prize that Paris gave: Jealousy’s ensanguined chalice Mantling pours the orient wave.

X.

Pan beheld Patroclus dying, Nox to Niobe was turn’d; From Busiris Bacchus flying, Saw his Semele inurn’d.

XI.

Thus fell Drury’s lofty glory, Levell’d with the shuddering stones; Mars, with tresses black and gory, Drinks the dew of pearly groans.

XII.

Hark! what soft Eolian numbers Gem the blushes of the morn! Break, Amphion, break your slumbers, Nature’s ringlets deck the thorn.

XIII.

Ha! I hear the strain erratic Dimly glance from pole to pole; Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic Fire my everlasting soul.

XIV.

Where is Cupid’s crimson motion? Billowy ecstasy of woe, Bear me straight, meandering ocean, Where the stagnant torrents flow.

XV.

Blood in every vein is gushing, Vixen vengeance lulls my heart: See, the Gorgon gang is rushing! Never, never let us part!

Survey this shield, all bossy bright— These cuisses twain behold! Look on my form in armour dight Of steel inlaid with gold; My knees are stiff in iron buckles, Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles. These once belong’d to sable prince, Who never did in battle wince; With valour tart as pungent quince, He slew the vaunting Gaul. Rest there awhile, my bearded lance, While from green curtain I advance To yon foot-lights—no trivial dance, [43a] And tell the town what sad mischance Did Drury Lane befall.

THE NIGHT.

On fair Augusta’s [43b] towers and trees Flitted the silent midnight breeze, Curling the foliage as it pass’d, Which from the moon-tipp’d plumage cast A spangled light, like dancing spray, Then re-assumed its still array; When, as night’s lamp unclouded hung, And down its full effulgence flung, It shed such soft and balmy power That cot and castle, hall and bower, And spire and dome, and turret height, Appeared to slumber in the light. From Henry’s chapel, Rufus’ hall, To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul; From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, To Redriffe, Shadwell, Horsleydown, No voice was heard, no eye unclosed, But all in deepest sleep reposed. They might have thought, who gazed around Amid a silence so profound, It made the senses thrill, That ’twas no place inhabited, But some vast city of the dead— All was so hush’d and still.

THE BURNING.

As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom, Had slept in everlasting gloom, Started with terror and surprise When light first flash’d upon her eyes— So London’s sons in nightcap woke, In bed-gown woke her dames; For shouts were heard ’mid fire and smoke, And twice ten hundred voices spoke— “The playhouse is in flames!” And, lo! where Catherine Street extends, A fiery tail its lustre lends To every window-pane; Blushes each spout in Martlet Court, And Barbican, moth-eaten fort, And Covent Garden kennels sport A bright ensanguined drain; Meux’s new brewhouse shows the light, Rowland Hill’s Chapel, and the height Where Patent Shot they sell; The Tennis Court, so fair and tall, Partakes the ray, with Surgeons’ Hall, The Ticket-Porters’ House of Call, Old Bedlam, close by London Wall, [45] Wright’s shrimp and oyster shop withal, And Richardson’s Hotel. Nor these alone, but far and wide, Across red Thames’s gleaming tide, To distant fields the blaze was borne, And daisy white and hoary thorn In borrow’d lustre seem’d to sham The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am. To those who on the hills around Beheld the flames from Drury’s mound, As from a lofty altar rise, It seem’d that nations did conspire To offer to the god of fire Some vast, stupendous sacrifice! The summon’d firemen woke at call, And hied them to their stations all: Starting from short and broken snooze, Each sought his pond’rous hobnail’d shoes, But first his worsted hosen plied, Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed, His nether bulk embraced; Then jacket thick, of red or blue, Whose massy shoulder gave to view The badge of each respective crew, In tin or copper traced. The engines thunder’d through the street, Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete, And torches glared, and clattering feet Along the pavement paced. And one, the leader of the band, From Charing Cross along the Strand, Like stag by beagles hunted hard, Ran till he stopp’d at Vin’gar Yard. [46a] The burning badge his shoulder bore, The belt and oil-skin hat he wore, The cane he had, his men to bang, Show’d foreman of the British gang— His name was Higginbottom. Now ’Tis meet that I should tell you how The others came in view: The Hand-in-Hand the race begun, [46b] Then came the Phoenix and the Sun, Th’ Exchange, where old insurers run, The Eagle, where the new; With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole, Robins from Hockley in the Hole, Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl, Crump from St. Giles’s Pound: Whitford and Mitford join’d the train, Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain Before the plug was found. Hobson and Jobson did not sleep, But ah! no trophy could they reap, For both were in the Donjon Keep Of Bridewell’s gloomy mound!

E’en Higginbottom now was posed, For sadder scene was ne’er disclosed Without, within, in hideous show, Devouring flames resistless glow, And blazing rafters downward go, And never halloo “Heads below!” Nor notice give at all. The firemen terrified are slow To bid the pumping torrent flow, For fear the roof should fall. Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof! Whitford, keep near the walls! Huggins, regard your own behoof, For, lo! the blazing rocking roof Down, down in thunder falls! An awful pause succeeds the stroke, And o’er the ruins volumed smoke, Rolling around its pitchy shroud, Conceal’d them from th’ astonish’d crowd. At length the mist awhile was clear’d, When lo! amid the wreck uprear’d, Gradual a moving head appear’d, And Eagle firemen knew ’Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered, The foreman of their crew. Loud shouted all in signs of woe, “A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!” And pour’d the hissing tide: Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, And strove and struggled all in vain, For, rallying but to fall again, He totter’d, sunk, and died!

Did none attempt, before he fell, To succour one they loved so well? Yes, Higginbottom did aspire (His fireman’s soul was all on fire) His brother chief to save; But ah! his reckless generous ire Served but to abate his grave! ’Mid blazing beams and scalding streams. Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before: But sulphry stench and boiling drench Destroying sight o’erwhelm’d him quite, He sunk to rise no more. Still o’er his head, while fate he braved, His whizzing water-pipe he waved; “Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps, You, Clutterbuck, come stir your stumps, Why are you in such doleful dumps? A fireman, and afraid of bumps!— What are they fear’d on? fools! ’od rot ’em!” Were the last words of Higginbottom. [48]

THE REVIVAL.

Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom, And toil rebuilds what fires consume! Eat we and drink we, be our ditty, “Joy to the managing committee!” Eat we and drink we, join to rum Roast beef and pudding of the plum! Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come, With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, For this is Drury’s gay day: Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops, And buy, to glad thy smiling chops, Crisp parliament with lollypops, And fingers of the Lady.

Didst mark, how toil’d the busy train, From morn to eve, till Drury Lane Leap’d like a roebuck from the plain? Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again, And nimble workmen trod; To realise bold Wyatt’s plan Rush’d many a howling Irishman; Loud clatter’d many a porter-can, And many a ragamuffin clan With trowel and with hod.

Drury revives! her rounded pate Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate; She “wings the midway air” elate, As magpie, crow, or chough; White paint her modish visage smears, Yellow and pointed are her ears, No pendent portico appears Dangling beneath, for Whitbread’s shears [49] Have cut the bauble off.

Yes, she exalts her stately head; And, but that solid bulk outspread Opposed you on your onward tread, And posts and pillars warranted That all was true that Wyatt said, You might have deemed her walls so thick Were not composed of stone or brick, But all a phantom, all a trick, Of brain disturb’d and fancy sick, So high she soars, so vast, so quick!

I.

Sobriety, cease to be sober, [56b] Cease, Labour, to dig and to delve; All hail to this tenth of October, One thousand eight hundred and twelve! [57] Ha! whom do my peepers remark? ’Tis Hebe with Jupiter’s jug; O no, ’tis the pride of the Park, Fair Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

II.

Why, beautiful nymph, do you close The curtain that fringes your eye? Why veil in the clouds of repose The sun that should brighten our sky? Perhaps jealous Venus has oiled Your hair with some opiate drug, Not choosing her charms should be foiled By Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

III.

But ah! why awaken the blaze Those bright burning-glasses contain, Whose lens with concentrated rays Proved fatal to old Drury Lane? ’Twas all accidental, they cry,— Away with the flimsy humbug! ’Twas fired by a flash from the eye Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

IV.

Thy glance can in us raise a flame, Then why should old Drury be free? Our doom and its doom are the same, Both subject to beauty’s decree. No candles the workmen consumed When deep in the ruins they dug; Thy flash still their progress illumed, Sweet Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

V.

Thy face a rich fire-place displays: The mantel-piece marble—thy brows; Thine eyes are the bright beaming blaze; Thy bib, which no trespass allows, The fender’s tall barrier marks; Thy tippet’s the fire-quelling rug, Which serves to extinguish the sparks Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

VI.

The Countess a lily appears, Whose tresses the pearl-drops emboss; The Marchioness, blooming in years, A rose-bud enveloped in moss; But thou art the sweet passion-flower, For who would not slavery hug, To pass but one exquisite hour In the arms of Elizabeth Mugg?

VII.

When at Court, or some Dowager’s rout, Her diamond aigrette meets our view, She looks like a glow-worm dressed out, Or tulips bespangled with dew. Her two lips denied to man’s suit Are shared with her favourite Pug; What lord would not change with the brute, To live with Elizabeth Mugg?

VIII.

Could the stage be a large vis-à-vis, Reserved for the polished and great, Where each happy lover might see The nymph he adores tête-à-tête; No longer I’d gaze on the ground, And the load of despondency lug, For I’d book myself all the year round To ride with the sweet Lady Mugg.

IX.

Yes, she in herself is a host, And if she were here all alone, Our house might nocturnally boast A bumper of fashion and ton. Again should it burst in a blaze, In vain would they ply Congreve’s plug, [59] For nought could extinguish the rays From the glance of divine Lady Mugg.

X.

O could I as Harlequin frisk, And thou be my Columbine fair, My wand should with one magic whisk Transport us to Hanover Square: St. George’s should lend us its shrine, The parson his shoulders might shrug, But a licence should force him to join My hand in the hand of my Mugg.

XI.

Court-plaster the weapons should tip, By Cupid shot down from above, Which, cut into spots for thy lip, Should still barb the arrows of love. The God who from others flies quick, With us should be slow as a slug; As close as a leech he should stick To me and Elizabeth Mugg.

XII.

For Time would, with us, ’stead of sand, Put filings of steel in his glass, To dry up the blots of his hand, And spangle life’s page as they pass. Since all flesh is grass ere ’tis hay, [60] O may I in clover live snug, And when old Time mows me away, Be stacked with defunct Lady Mugg!

My palate is parched with Pierian thirst, Away to Parnassus I’m beckoned; List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehearsed, I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first, And the birth of Miss Drury the second.

The Fire King, one day, rather amorous felt; He mounted his hot copper filly; His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt Was made of cast iron, for fear it should melt With the heat of the copper colt’s belly.

Sure never was skin half so scalding as his! When an infant ’twas equally horrid; For the water, when he was baptized, gave a fizz, And bubbled and simmer’d and started off, whizz! As soon as it sprinkled his forehead.

O! then there was glitter and fire in each eye, For two living coals were the symbols; His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry, It rattled against them, as though you should try To play the piano in thimbles.

From his nostrils a lava sulphureous flows, Which scorches wherever it lingers; A snivelling fellow he’s call’d by his foes, For he can’t raise his paw up to blow his red nose For fear it should blister his fingers.

His wig is of flames curling over his head, Well powder’d with white smoking ashes; He drinks gunpowder tea, melted sugar of lead, Cream of tartar, and dines on hot spice gingerbread, Which black from the oven he gnashes.

Each fire-nymph his kiss from her countenance shields, ’Twould soon set her cheekbone a frying; He spit in the Tenter-Ground near Spital-fields, And the hole that it burnt, and the chalk that it yields Make a capital lime-kiln for drying.

When he open’d his mouth, out there issued a blast, (Nota bene, I do not mean swearing,) But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast, I’ve heard it from those who have seen it, surpass’d A shot manufactory flaring.

He blazed, and he blazed, as be gallop’d to snatch His bride, little dreaming of danger; His whip was a torch, and his spur was a match, And over the horse’s left eye was a patch, To keep it from burning the manger.

And who is the housemaid he means to enthral In his cinder-producing alliance? Tis Drury-Lane Playhouse, so wide and so tall, Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall, If she cannot set sparks at defiance.

On his warming-pan kneepan he clattering roll’d, And the housemaid his hand would have taken, But his hand, like his passion, was too hot to hold, And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold All melted, like butter or bacon!

Oh! then she look’d sour, and indeed well she might, For Vinegar Yard was before her; But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight, Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas light, To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her.

Look! look! ’tis the Ale King, so stately and starch, Whose votaries scorn to be sober; He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch; Brown-stout is his doublet, he hops in his march, And froths at the mouth in October.

His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung; He taps where the housemaid no more is, When lo! at his magical bidding, upsprung A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young, And sported in loco sororis.

Back, lurid in air, for a second regale, The Cinder King, hot with desire, To Brydges Street hied; but the Monarch of Ale, With uplifted spigot and faucet, and pail, Thus chided the Monarch of Fire:

“Vile tyrant, beware of the ferment I brew; I rule the roast here, dash the wig o’ me! If, spite of your marriage with Old Drury, you Come here with your tinderbox, courting the New I’ll have you indicted for bigamy!”

My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad? I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey To carry to the mart her crockery ware, And when that donkey look’d me in the face, His face was sad! and you are sad, my Public!

Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October Again assembles us in Drury Lane. Long wept my eye to see the timber planks That hid our ruins; many a day I cried, Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it! Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve, As along Charles Street I prepared to walk, Just at the corner, by the pastrycook’s, I heard a trowel tick against a brick. I look’d me up, and straight a parapet Uprose at least seven inches o’er the planks. Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said: He of Blackfriars’ Road, [66] who hymned thy downfall In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma, Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee, Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour, As leisure offer’d, close to Mr. Spring’s Box-office door, I’ve stood and eyed the builders. They had a plan to render less their labours; Workmen in olden times would mount a ladder With hodded heads, but these stretch’d forth a pole From the wall’s pinnacle, they plac’d a pulley Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley; To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks Thus freighted, swung securely to the top, And in the empty basket workmen twain Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth.

Oh! ’twas a goodly sound, to hear the people Who watch’d the work, express their various thoughts! While some believed it never would be finish’d, Some, on the contrary, believed it would.

I’ve heard our front that faces Drury Lane Much criticised; they say ’tis vulgar brick-work, A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth. One of the morning papers wish’d that front Cemented like the front in Brydges Street; As it now looks, they call it Wyatt’s Mermaid, A handsome woman with a fish’s tail.

White is the steeple of St. Bride’s in Fleet Street; The Albion (as its name denotes) is white; Morgan and Saunders’ shop for chairs and tables Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun; White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride’s in Fleet Street, The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders, Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury’s face.

Oh, Mr. Whitbread! [67] fie upon you, sir! I think you should have built a colonnade; When tender Beauty, looking for her coach, Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower And draws the tippet closer round her throat, Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off, And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud Soaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa Cries, “There you go! this comes of playhouses!” To build no portico is penny wise: Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish!

Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theatres! What is the Regency in Tottenham Street, The Royal Amphitheatre of Arts, Astley’s, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil, Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee push’d Back from the narrow street that christened thee, I know not why they call thee Drury Lane.

Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions, It grieves me much to see live animals Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit, Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig; Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist Of former Drury, imitated life Quite to the life. The Elephant its Blue Beard, Stuff’d by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis, As spruce as he who roar’d in Padmanaba. [68] Nought born on earth should die. On hackney stands I reverence the coachman who cries “Gee,” And spares the lash. When I behold a spider Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm, Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton, Indeed, indeed, I’m very, very sick!

I.

Mr. Jack, your address, says the Prompter to me, So I gave him my card—No, that a’nt it, says he; ’Tis your public address. Oh! says I, never fear, If address you are bother’d for, only look here.

[Puts on hat affectedly. Tol de rol lol, &c.

II.

With Drurys for sartin we’ll never have done, We’ve built up another, and yet there’s but one; The old one was best, yet I’d say, if I durst, The new one is better—the last is the first.

Tol de rol, &c.

III.

These pillars are call’d by a Frenchified word, A something that’s jumbled of antique and verd; The boxes may show us some verdant antiques, Some old harridans who beplaster their cheeks.

Tol de rol, &c.

IV.

Only look how high Tragedy, Comedy, stick, Lest their rivals, the horses, should give them a kick! If you will not descend when our authors beseech ye, You’ll stop there for life, for I’m sure they can’t reach ye.

Tol de rol, &c.

V.

Each one shilling god within reach of a nod is, And plain are the charms of each gallery goddess— You, Brandy-fac’d Moll, don’t be looking askew, When I talk’d of a goddess I didn’t mean you.

Tol de rol, &c.

VI.

Our stage is so prettily fashion’d for viewing, The whole house can see what the whole house is doing: ’Tis just like the Hustings, we kick up a bother; But saying is one thing, and doing’s another.

Tol de rol, &c.

VII.

We’ve many new houses, and some of them rum ones, But the newest of all is the new House of Commons; ’Tis a rickety sort of a bantling, I’m told, It will die of old age when it’s seven years old.

Tol de rol, &c.

VIII.

As I don’t know on whom the election will fall, I move in return for returning them all; But for fear Mr. Speaker my meaning should miss, The house that I wish ’em to sit in is this.

Tol de rol, &c.

IX.

Let us cheer our great Commoner, but for whose aid We all should have gone with short commons to bed; And since he has saved all the fat from the fire, I move that the house be call’d Whitbread’s Entire. [71]

Tol de rol, &c.

Away, fond dupes! who, smit with sacred lore, Mosaic dreams in Genesis explore, Doat with Copernicus, or darkling stray With Newton, Ptolemy, or Tycho Brahe! To you I sing not, for I sing of truth, Primeval 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 cow-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 confess’d, Where fair Æolia springs from Tethys’ breast; Thence on Olympus, ’mid celestials placed, God of the Winds, and Ether’s boundless waste— Thee I invoke! Oh puff my bold design, Prompt the bright thought, and swell th’ harmonious line Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspire With Winsor’s [74] 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 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 speeds the smiling suit—“Pleas of our Lord The King” shine sable on the wide record; Nods the prunella’d bar, attorneys smile, And syren 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 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 ass’s ears, And load a knave with folly’s rich arrears. And lo! a second miracle is thine, For sloe-juice water stands transformed 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 an 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 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 patronise 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 poised, that if one atom flings Its weight away, aloft the planet springs, And wings its course through 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 re-assume: 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 primeval 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 foetus 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 [77] 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 quite 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: amazed 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, no match for 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, 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 base, “resulting with a bound,” [79] They bear their bleeding carriers to the ground!

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 bobs 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 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 read No sacred writings but the Pagan creed— O happy age! when, spurning Newton’s dreams, Our poets’ 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!

’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 Phoebus 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.

Now the full benches to late-comers doom No room for standing, miscall’d standing-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 rise frequent damn, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and 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 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 play-bill 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, Gulls 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 balk, 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, [91] 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.

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.

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 Mullens 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 clue, 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— Uproars 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.

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 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 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 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.

Hark, hark! ’tis the signal, by goles! It sounds like a funeral knell; O, hear it hot, 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 Hypocon. 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, à-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 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, Damn it, what’s that? ’Twas a child of the count’s, in whose service lived Adelaide, Soused in the river, and squall’d like a cat.

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’s son and heir. Dear Sir, quoths the count, in reward of your valour, To show that my gratitude is not mere talk, You shall eat a beefsteak with 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 glow 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 this sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar ’em, And pathos and bathos delightful to see, And chop and change ribs, à-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— 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 prunes 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.

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, [103a] Spin up a tetotum like Angiolini: [103b] That John and Mrs. Bull, from ale and tea-houses, May shout huzza for Punch’s Apotheosis!