«Курьезы уличной литературы»

‘In lofty verse

‘Pathetic they alternately rehearse.’

каждый берет строку по очереди, и каждый соревнуется с другим в скорбной трагедии взгляда и голоса. Мгновения достаточно, чтобы провозгласить могильным голосом: «Ужасный несчастный случай сегодня на льду в Риджентс-парке» и т. д.

«Эти полпенсовые листки составляют почти всю поэзию Севен-Диалс, и хотя они почти не учат истории, они показывают, по крайней мере, какой вид поэзии находит наиболее благоприятный прием и самый быстрый сбыт среди наших низших классов. Насколько мы можем установить, в Лондоне есть восемь или десять издателей масштаба Форти и Дисли — хотя и не в таком большом масштабе. Балладников и зазывал прозаических декламаций (таких как «Политический катехизис») может быть около сотни, разбросанных по мегаполису, которые обитают в таких местах, как Нью-Кат, Тоттенхэм-Корт-роуд, Уайтчепел и Клеркенуэлл-Грин; и в зависимости от погоды, состояния торговли и характера своих товаров зарабатывают скудную или веселую жизнь, распевая такие песни, которые мы сейчас представили нашим читателям. «Песни, если они слишком религиозны», — говорит один менестрель, — «вообще не продаются; хотя приличная мораль идет очень хорошо. Но хорошее, ужасное убийство — это то, что надо. Я знал», — говорит наш авторитет, — «человека, который продавал рим в день их — это двадцать дюжин, знаете ли»; и эта продажа может продолжаться днями, так что с сорока или пятьюдесятью людьми, работающими менестрелями, популярная баллада вскоре достигнет тиража в тридцать, сорок или пятьдесят тысяч. Время от времени сам издатель сочиняет песню, и в этом случае экономит на стоимости авторских прав, хотя его расходы очень незначительны, даже когда он должен покупать ее. Если один из зазывал пишет балладу на захватывающую тему, он спешит сразу в Севен-Диалс, где, если ее принимают, его награда — «стакан рома, кусок пирога и пять дюжин копий», — которые, если несчастный случай или убийство очень ужасны, печатаются для него, пока он ждет. Убийство всегда хорошо продается, так же как пожар или страшная железнодорожная катастрофа. Хорошая история любви, включающая

‘infidi perjuria nautæ

Deceptamque dolo nympham’

часто идет неплохо; но политика среди низшего класса — это неходовой товар. Даже знаменитая «Баллада о смерти Пэма» не имела большого успеха, кроме как среди лучшего сорта людей; и хотя грубияны любят кричать «Реформы», они, по-видимому, не заботятся тратить на это деньги».

Мы представили этот жалкий собачий стих нашим читателям, чтобы они могли составить некоторое представление о том виде уличной литературы, которая до сих пор популярна у столь многих представителей низших классов. Унизительно, посреди всех школ и обучения нынешнего дня, находить такой мусор, постоянно изливаемый и жадно читаемый. Все же есть некоторые искупающие черты в этой утомительной пустыне. Взятые в целом, моральный тон баллад, если не возвышенный, то, безусловно, не плохой; и количество отдельных строф, которые нельзя было бы процитировать на этих страницах из-за их грубого или непристойного языка, очень мало; в то время как количество целых баллад, подлежащих исключению по той же причине, еще меньше.

ЖЕНЩИНА-МУЖ, КОТОРАЯ БЫЛА ЗАМУЖЕМ ЗА ДРУГОЙ ЖЕНЩИНОЙ В ТЕЧЕНИЕ ДВАДЦАТИ ОДНОГО ГОДА.

What wonders now I have to pen, sir,

Women turning into men, sir,

For twenty-one long years, or more, sir,

She wore the breeches we are told, sir,

A smart and active handsome groom, sir,

She then got married very soon, sir,

A shipwright’s trade she after took, sir,

And of his wife, he made a fool sir.

Sing hey! sing O! ’twas my downfall, sir,

To marry a man with nothing at all, sir,

Ну, матушка Спрайтли, что вы думаете об этом женщине-муже; мне это кажется странным делом. Почему, матушка Чаттер, я не верю и половине того, что об этом говорят — фу, фу, вы думаете, я бы пролежала в постели со своим мужем двадцать одну минуту, не зная, из чего он сделан, не говоря уже о двадцати одном годе, ибо у меня никогда не хватило бы терпения ждать так долго. Мой старик прижимается ко мне, как воск, в эти холодные зимние ночи, и если бы он повернулся ко мне спиной, я бы воткнула в нее иголку.

If the wife asked for a favour,

Then she flew into a fever,

Gave to her a precious thump, sir,

Which after left a largeish lump, sir,

Then her limbs so straight and tall, sir,

She turn’d her face against the wall, sir,

And oft have quarrel’d and much strife, sir,

Because he would not cuddle the wife, sir.

Почему я должна сказать, матушка Чаттер, если бы он был моим мужем, я думаю, после тяжелой работы весь день он должен был крепко спать, и я бы увидела, что он такое, прежде чем встала утром, или я бы знала причину, почему.

Was woman ever so perplex’d, sir,

And through life so grievously vex’d, sir,

And disappointments oft did meet, sir,

And instead of a kiss, I oft got beat, sir,

Sometimes cuff’d and sometimes scouted,

Because I asked what woman wanted,

And if ever that I marry again, sir,

I’ll surely marry a perfect man, sir.

Матушка Чаттер — Мужчина, действительно! да, я надеюсь, она позаботится в следующий раз, когда выйдет замуж, и не будет снова так одурачена; и так как она была таким плохим судьей, я бы посоветовала ей попробовать и испытать сначала в следующий раз.

Матушка Спрайтли — Я не сомневаюсь, что она осмотрит бороду и бакенбарды следующего мужчины, за которого выйдет замуж, и не поверит безбородому существу на слово.

With this pretty handsome groom, sir,

She went and spent the honey-moon, sir,

The very first night my love should cuddle,

Up in the clothes he close did huddle;

And with his face against the wall, sir,

He never spoke a word at all, sir,

A maid to bed I then did go, sir,

And a maiden am now, heigho! heigho! sir.

Ну, матушка Фриски, как ваш старик? Почему он вполне бодр и во всех отношениях мужчина, не из ваших фальшивых мужей; дайте мне настоящего мужчину или никого вовсе. Ну, я вашего мнения, и я надеюсь, что у следующего мужа, который у нее будет, она родит крепких детей.

Pretty maidens list I pray, sir,

Unto what I now do say, sir,

Taste and try before you buy, sir,

Or you’ll get bit as well as I, sir;

See he’s perfect in all parts, sir,

Before you join your hand and heart, sir,

You then with all your strength may try, sir,

To be fruitful, increase, and multiply, sir.

Напечатано Т. Бертом, № 10, Грейт-Сент-Эндрю-стрит, Севен-Диалс.

ДОМ ШЕКСПИРА.

“Pulling down and building up is all the go,

And the scene changes like a raree show,”

Yet is it not disgraceful to the nation,

That Shakespeare’s house is doomed to mutilation?

The house in which that great man first drew breath,

A spot renowned before and after death—

Where pilgrims from every land have come,

To see his birth place, Nature’s learned home—

Where first shone forth, a pale, an infant light,

A spreading brilliancy, which still burns bright.

Oh, who shall have the writings on the walls,

Oh, who can save the house that’s doomed to fall?

True genius, of which we vainly boast,

By our rulers seems neglected most.

How we took the kernel, and threw by the shell,

Profanation, degradation,—Oh, England, thou art a tardanation!

Time-hallowed spot, could we call back those days,

When Shakespeare here in thoughtless boyhood plays.

Before his plays had graced the mimic scene,

Since which three hundred years have been

Food for reflection, here the thinking mind,

“And good in everything” we ought to find.

From out the walls in fancy we might trace

Macbeth, Hamlet, and King Richard’s face;

And all the clouds that on this house have lowered,

Look frowningly, as ’twere upon a coward,

Who thus stands meekly by this sacred wood,

Nor helps to save it for its country’s good.

But let it go, our Shakespeare needs no fame,

’Tis but a house! a house! “What’s in a name?”

Let it be sold, or in the sea be tossed—

His loved and mighty labours ne’er will be lost.

Altercation, dilapidation,—Time steps in and cheats the nation!

Great Premier,—Oh, King John,—grant this our charter,

Why in this land should genius be a martyr?

The Tempest’s rising, if we fail we fall;

And time may tell you a sad Winter’s Tale.

Come, As you like it, make this house a treasure,

Do not divide it, Measure for Measure.

Methinks in sadness I can see the Moor,

Othello, looking blacker than before;

Therefore, good John, we look to you

To put this house in order, and to Tame the Shrew.

The very age and body of the time (reflecting mirrors)

Proclaims this sale a Comedy of Errors,

While England wastes her thousands, ’tis not soothing,

To say this is Much Ado about Nothing;

For to the wise and thoughtful this would seem

A summer cloud or Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Moderation, preservation,—Is all we’re asking of the nation!

Robins, at knocking houses down so fond,

Exclaims, with Shakespeare’s Jew, I’ll have my bond.

Put down your hammer, Mr Robins, stop;

You take my house when you do touch the prop.

Hard-hearted man, such antique relics ridding,

With hammer soon to fall and looks for-bidding,

Shakespeare by you has been puffed up and praised,

To sell his house you have a story raised.

And is it true this house is coming down,

To be put on wheels and dragged about the town?

Can such things be, can it be so!

What, make this classic pile a travelling show?

Tis true; ’tis pity chaps from Yankee land

Are coming over with the cash in hand.

Blow winds, crack cheeks, their paltry lucre spurn,

To what base uses may we not return.

Speculation—British nation, Oh, save the house from exportation!

Time was, and it seems but t’other day,

When we could see a real Shakesperian play,

With Miss O’Neill, Siddons, or the great John Kemble,

Could laugh at Munden, or at old Kean tremble.

Macready does Shakespeare now, with Kean’s son Charlie,

And Drury Lane holds legitimate with Harley;

Shakespeare inside has long been quite neglected,

His statue outside looks forlorn, dejected;

For great folks now run after Greas or All-bony,

Tamburini, Jenny Lind, or Taglioni,

Which John Bull’s dire indignation rouses,

Till he exclaims, “A plague on both your houses.”

Portia, Miranda, Juliet for him plead,

Preserve this house, thy potent spell we need.”

My song is done, and you I pardon crave—

All’s well that ends well, if this house we save.

Determination, stimulation,—and Shakespeare’s house an honour to the nation.

E. Hodges, Printer (from the late J. Pitt’s), Wholesale Toy Warehouse, 38, Dudley Street, 7 Dials.

НОВАЯ ПЕСНЯ О КОСТЮМЕ БЛУМЕР.

Oh, did you hear the news of late,

According to the rumours,

The pretty ladies one and all,

Are going to join the bloomers.

Since Mrs Dexter’s come to town,

She says, oh, what a row, sir,

The men shall wear the petticoats

And ladies wear the trousers.

Oh, did you hear, &c.

Now Mrs. Dexter’s come to town,

She says, she’ll not be lazy,

But quickly turn the ladies’ brains,

And set the men all crazy.

Old maids and lasses fine and gay,

Short, stumpy, tall and bandy,

Long petticoats now throw away,

And beat the yanky dandy.

Prince Albert and the Queen one day,

Had such a jolly row, sirs,

She threw off her petticoats

And put on boots and trousers;

Won’t it be funny for to see

Ladies possessed of riches,

Riding up and down the town

In Wellingtons and breeches.

Now you with ancles short and thick,

Of every rank and station,

Oh, won’t you cut it fine and slick,

By this new alteration.

And landladies that creep about,

Well known as twenty stoners,

Come shove your bustles up the spout,

And join the dashing bloomers.

The bloomers dress, the people say,

Is getting all the go now,

The pretty factory lasses they,

Will cut a gallant show now,

In petticoats above their knes,

And breeches too you’ll fit them.

Nice jackets made of velveteen,

All button’d up behind them.

Now married men take my advice,

Step out and spend your riches,

And buy your wife all in a trice,

Short petticoats and breeches,

For in the fashion she will hop,

Whene’er she’s out of humour,

I wonder if her tongue will stop,

When she becomes a bloomer.

Last night my wife she said to me,

Tom, when we’ve got the notes in,

I’ll have a pair of gaiters, and

Breeches made of goat’s skin.

A pair of boots and silver spurs,

For I have got such bad legs,

I cannot hide I’ll have to ride,

The donkey now a strad-legs.

The men must go out selling fish,

And deal in shrimps and mussels,

Dress’d up in ladies’ petticoats,

Fine flounces and big bustles,

You’ll have no call to work at all,

But walk out in your broaches,

The ladies are determined, for,

To drive the cabs and coaches.

The tailors now must all be sharp

In making noble stitches,

And be sure and clap their burning goose

Upon the ladies’ breeches;

Their pretty little fingers will

Be just as sore as mutton,

Until that they have found the way

Their trousers to unbutton.

You factory lasses, one and all,

Your dresses all reform now,

Buy a jacket and a trousers for

To keep you snug and warm now;

Short petticoats and garters too,

No matter how the time goes,

A billycock and feather for

To see which way the wind blows.

М. О’ЛОФНАН.

МАНЧЕСТЕР — ИЗМЕНИВШИЙСЯ ГОРОД.

Once on a time this good old town was nothing but a village,

Of husbandry, and farmers too, whose time was spent in tillage;

But things are altered very much, such building now allotted is,

It rivals far and soon will leave behind the great Metropolis.

O dear O, Manchester’s an altered town, O dear O.

Once on a time were you inclin’d, your weary limbs to lave, sir,

In summer’s scorching heat in the Irwell’s cooling wave, sir;

You had only got to go to the Old Church for the shore, sir,

But since those days the fish have died, and now they are no more, sir.

When things do change you ne’er do know what next is sure to follow,

For mark the change in Broughton now, of late ’twas but a hollow

For they have found it so snug, and chang’d its etymology,

They have clapt in it a wild beast’s show, now call’d the Gardens of Zoology.

A market on Shudehill was, and it remains there still, sir,

The Salford old bridge is taken away, and clapt a new one in, sir,

There’s Newton lane I now shall name, has had an alteration,

They’ve knock’d a great part of it down, to make a railway station.

There’s the Bolton railway station in Salford, give attention,

Besides many more too numerous to mention;

Besides a new Police, to put the old ones down stairs, sir,

A mayor and corporation to govern this old town, sir.

There’s the Manchester and Salford old bridge, that long has stood, the weather,

Because it was so very old they drown’d it altogether;

And Brown street market too, it forms part of this sonnet,

Down it must come, they say, to build a borough gaol upon it.

Not long ago if you had taken a walk thro’ Stevenson’s square, sir,

You might have seen, if you look’d, a kind of chapel there, sir,

And yet this place, some people thought, had better to come down, sir,

And in the parson’s place they put a pantaloon and clown, sir.

In former times our cotton swells were not half so mighty found, sir,

But in these modern times they everywhere abound, sir,

With now police and watchmen, to break peace there’s none dare

And at every step the ladies go, policemen will cry, move on there’.

In former days this good old town was guarded from the prigs, sir,

By day constables, by night by watchmen with Welsh wigs, sir;

But things are alter’d very much, for all those who are scholars,

May tell the new policemen by their numbers on their collars.

НОВАЯ ПЕСНЯ О ПРЕСТОНСКОЙ ГИЛЬДИИ, 1842 г.

Дж. Харкнесс, печатник, 121, Черч-стрит, Престон.

You lads and lasses far and near,

Unto my song pray lend an ear,

The time is come for mirth and glee,

To Preston Guild let’s haste away,

For Tom and Sal with Jim and Peg,

And daddy with his wooden leg,

And grunting Jack with Sam and Will,

Are all gone off to Preston Guild.

There lords and ladies, Kings and Queens,

At Preston Guild they may be seen,

Yes, Merchants, Tradesmen,—a grand show,

With ladies walking in a row;

And then the trades they do appear,

By gum it makes one feel quite queer,

Some walking,—others standing still,

This is the fun at Preston Guild.

The tailors they lead up the van,

With Adam and Eve they look so grand,

Then Robin Hood’s men and gardeners,

Who represent Mars the God of Wars,

Shopkeepers, Publicans so free,

Will follow up for liberty,

The grandest show in England still,

Is the jublilee at Preston Guild.

The factory folks are next in view,

Spinners, weavers, and carders too,

The piecers do not lag behind,

Brickmakers at the Guild we find,

Bricksetters, masons two and two,

To see them walking in a row,

The men who houses and factories build,

You’ll see them walk at Preston Guild.

When at the Guild you do arrive,

Like bees they’re swarming all alive,

All kinds of trades are working still,

You’ll see, now you’re at Preston Guild.

There’s swinging boxes, likewise shows,

And soldiers ’listing drunken fools,

Both drunkards and teetotallers will,

Enjoy a peep at Preston Guild.

Its toss or buy for cakes or nuts,

Sweet meats or ORMSKIRK, stuff your guts,

Or take a trow at civil will,

Now lads you’ve come to Preston Guild,

Or see the sports that’s up and down,

At Preston Guild in Preston town,

Two shillings a bed pay with good will,

If you stop one night at Preston Guild.

The times are hard, the wages low,

Some thousands to the Guild can’t go,

From Blackburn, Burnley, and Chorley still,

They will roll on to Preston Guild,

From Wigan, Bolton, Lancaster,

From Liverpool and Manchester,

The Railroad brings them on it still,

To see the fun at Preston Guild.

So young and old I’ll tell you true,

It’s different now since twenty-two,

The men did labour with good will,

It’s not so now this Preston Guild.

But let us hope the times will mend,

When the poor man can the poor befriend,

We want our rights and then we will,

Have plenty of sport next Preston Guild.

ПРОРОЧЕСТВО НА 1850 ГОД — — — —

Джон Харкнесс, печатник, Черч-стрит; — Офис, Норт-роуд, Престон.

Now Christmas it is gone and past, throughout the British nation,

Come list to me and you will see a wonderful alteration;

In the new year there will appear, or I may cause a blunder,

Some curious changes that will fill you with amaze and wonder.

CHORUS.

So listen to me of all degree, both single, wise, and thrifty,

While I prophecy what you will see, in eighteen hundred and fifty.

The Queen will have another son, he will be a steam-loom weaver,

And Prince Albert he is going to be a wopping big coal-heaver;

Old Wellington as I’ve heard say, with his great whacking nose, sir,

With a donkey cart is going out a gathering old clothes, sir.

Russell and Grey, as I’ve heard say, are going to be sailors,

And Bobby Peel will make, of steel, new thimbles for the tailors;

Cobden and Bright will have a fight, and conquer in dirch man,

Without protection, in a crack, knock down the Duke of Richmond.

The muck carts they will go by steam, no horses will be wanted,

We will have four pound loaves for threepence each, then we shall be undaunted,

Girls must new fashioned whiskers wear, fine lawns they must adorn her,

Their stockings must be made of gold brought home from California.

All females over seventeen, that out of doors are flocking,

Will sadly rue if there should be, a hole seen in their stocking,

Either in the leg or heel, the law to nothing flinches,

Each bustle must be stuffed with straw full nine feet eleven inches.

And very soon, in May or June, we will be amaz’d with wonder,

For it will either rain or freeze, with heavy claps of thunder,

The free hall is going to fall, believe me it’s no fable,

And legs of mutton from the clouds will fall upon the table.

No little boys must smoke cigars, nor yet be seen a courting,

Male and female under twenty-two, must not be seen a flirting,

Any factory lass that has a child until she is married really,

Must serve twelve months in ———— or else in the New Bailey.

If any landlord call for rent upon a Monday morning,

His tenants shall be authorised without a moment’s warning

To strip him naked to the skin in any sort of weather,

Daub him with tar from head to foot, and cover him with feathers.

And Scotchmen, too, mark what I say, you may roll in soot and cinders,

And after that take him up stairs, and throw him through the windows,

They will take the duty off the gin, and clap it on the mussels,

And lay an extra shilling on the gutta-percha bustles.

The old women they will dance with glee, and if I’m not mistaken,

They will take the duty off the tea, the sugar, and the bacon;

Morning and night they’ll have fat cakes, the frying pans will flourish,

With mutton chops and good beef steaks, their stomachs for to nourish.

ГРЕЙС ДАРЛИНГ.

I pray give attention to what I shall mention,

There was a young damsel liv’d by the sea side,

Her name was Grace Darling, a good hearted heroine,

And she with her father alone did reside,

She was brave and undaunted, possess’d of great courage,

Her heart often beat in her breast we are told,

While the seas were commotion, she ventured the ocean,

Grace Horsely Darling, a female so bold.

On the 6th of September, the Forfarshire steamer,

Sailed from Hull to the port of Dundee,

With her crew on board and forty-one passengers,

All hearts light and merry we put out to sea;

With her full crew and passengers sixty in number,

The vessel proceeded so gallant we’re told,

They thought not of storms, nor even of danger,

Though rescu’d from death by Grace Darling so bold.

In the dead of the night on the 6th of September,

The crew and passengers felt dreadful shocks,

Against Longstone Island with force so tremendous,

The Forfarshire steamer she went on the rocks,

Asunder she rent while the crew fell a weeping.

And some from the deck to deep they were roll’d,

But the shrieks and the cries met the ears of that female,

Grace Darling—that gallant young woman so bold.

In the dead of the night this undaunted young female,

Oh! father, dear father, awake she did cry,

Arouse from your slumber and launch the boat quickly,

Poor creatures to save, our efforts let’s try,

I fear there’s a wreck, let us strive then to rescue

Some part of the crew from the deep sad and cold,

Their shrieks do appal me, their cries she said pierce me,

Grace Darling—that gallant young female so bold.

Says her father, dear daughter, this night it is stormy,

’Tis cold, and the seas they do run mountains high,

It is folly my child to attempt on the billow,

I fear not the danger, dear father, she cried!

The boat was launched quickly, the seas loudly roaring,

To the wreck with her father she ventur’d we’re told,

And nine of the sufferers she saved from drowning,

Grace Darling—that gallant young female so bold.

When the danger was past her bosom beat lightly,

Yet tears from her eyes in large torrents did fall,

And saying we’ve only saved nine out sixty,

Oh! I wish dearest father we could have saved all.

Since her life she did hazard through tempests to save them

Her name shall be written in letters of gold,

With health and long life to that gallant young damsel,

Grace Horsely Darling—that female so bold.

ВЕЛИКИЙ БОЙ СЕЙЕРСА И ХИНАНА ЗА ЧЕМПИОНСКИЙ ТИТУЛ.

Upon the seventeenth day of April,

All in the morning soon,

The Yankee and the champion Sayers

Prepared to meet their doom.

The train it ran along like wind,

Coaches and cabs did fly,

Both men appeared determined

To conquer or to die.

They fought like lions in the ring,

Both men did boldly stand,

They two hours and six minutes fought,

And neither beat his man.

Tom hit at the Benicia boy

Right well you may suppose,

Heenan returned the compliment

Upon the champion’s nose.

Like two game cocks they stood the test,

And each to win did try,

Erin-go-bragh, cried Heenan,

I will conquer, lads, or die.

Cried Sayers, I will not give in,

Nor to a Yankee yield,

The belt I mean to keep my boys,

Or die upon the field.

They together stood it manfully,

Surprised all in the ring,

There was never such a battle, since

Jack Langham tackled Spring.

Such fibbing and such up and down

Lor, how the swells did shout,

Their ribs did nicely rattle,

And their daylight near knocked out,

Tom Sayers let into Heenan,

Heenan let into Tom,

While the Fancy bawled and shouted,

Lads, my jolly lads, go on.

Two long hours and six minutes

They fought, and the claret flew,

Sayers proved himself a brick, so did

Yankee doodle doo.

The bets did fly about, my boys,

And numbers looked with joy

On Sayers, the British champion,

And the bold Benicia boy.

They both had pluck and courage,

Each proved himself a man,

None better since the days of Spring

In the British ring did stand.

Erin-go-bragh, cried Heenan,

I want the English belt,

When Tom let fly, saying, I will die,

Or keep the belt myself.

At length bounced in the peelers,

And around the ring did jog,

So those heroes were surrounded

By a lot of Hampshire hogs,

Who caused them to cut their stick,

And from the fight refrain,

That they were both determined

In the ring to meet again.

We admit Tom Sayers had his match

One who did him annoy,

With lots of pluck and courage,

Was the bold Benicia boy.

And when two heroes fight again,

For honour and for wealth,

He that’s the best man in the ring,

Shall carry off the belt.

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс, Лондон.

СТРАШНЫЙ НЕСЧАСТНЫЙ СЛУЧАЙ НА ЛЬДУ В РИДЖЕНТС-ПАРКЕ И ПОТЕРЯ СОРОКА ЖИЗНЕЙ.

Of all the dread calamities you ever yet did hear,

Either in history or story;

If pity is within your breast, you will shed a silent tear,

And mourn for those drowned, now in glory!

The 15th of January, that Tuesday afternoon,

Some hundreds on the ice took their station,

Young men and boys, in youth and bloom,

To the park went for healthy recreation.

But soon it gave way, more than 40 lost their lives,

The widows and poor orphans ’twill distress them;

God bless those gallant hearts, to save life did strive,

And those now in Heaven,—God rest them.

’Twas near four o’clock, how dreadful to relate,

The ice it broke up in every quarter;

Two hundred then fell in, oh, what a sad fate,

All struggled for their lives in the water.

The cries of the people, as they stood upon the shore,

To witness such a scene most distressing,

Some clung to each other, but now are no more,

In grief are the friends of the missing.

What must have been the feelings of those standing by,

Unable to save and madly raving?

The women rushed about, and bitterly did cry,

My children, my children, oh save them!

Wives calling to their husbands,—children, father dear,

But few that were able to assist them,

Now all will miss their own, for them shed a tear,

Kind fathers, the children will miss them.

They clung to the ice, until benumbed with cold,

The ice in their grasp broke asunder;

One lady on the shore, in grief did behold

Her husband, exhausted, go under;

Two sisters were screaming and calling for aid,

Their sorrow, poor girls, could not smother,

In anguish wrung their hands, and franticly said,

For God’s sake save my poor brother.

The most mournful part remains to be told,

As the bodies to the dead-house were taken,

At the workhouse gate two thousand young and old,

The scene it was truly heart-breaking;

One body was owned by an old gentleman,

My son can’t be dead, he said, while crying,

He left me but two hours, was strong and cheerful then,

For a father so old it’s very trying.

The doctors did their best in saving many lives,

Of those that were in this sad disaster;

Officials one and all, Mr Douglas and his wife,

Long life to that kind workhouse master.

A poor faithful dog saw his master disappear,

And never left the park since that evening,

No food will he take, by the water stays near,

For it’s master the poor dog is grieving.

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс.

ИНОСТРАНЦЫ В АНГЛИИ.

What wonders we do daily see,

Enough to fill our hearts with glee,

Britannia now will merry be,

With the foreigners in England;

John Bull does foreigners adore,

Here’s the Viceroy from Egypt’s shore,

Here’s the Turkish Sultan blythe and gay,

And the Belgium Volunteers huzza!

The bells shall merrily ring, huzza,

Britannia sing and the band shall play,

Old Jacky Bull will the piper pay,

For the foreigners in England.

They are come to see the grand review,

And England’s Roberts’, dress’d in blue,

Hokey pokey parleyvous,

All the foreigners in England.

You pretty English maids, heigho,

If you don’t mind you’ll have to go

To the Sultan’s grand Seraglio,

And bid adieu to England.

Yes, and all old women, so you must mind,

Under the age of seventy-nine,

Will be taken away in the morning soon,

In a wooden cane bottom air balloon,

You must marry the Turk and danger drive,

Till to Constantinople you do arrive,

For the Turks have eleven hundred wives,

And he’ll take you all from England.

Now the other day, you know its true,

There was a terrible great to do,

About the grand Hyde Park review,

And the foreigners in England.

The reason they stopped, the papers said,

Poor Maximilian had lost his head,

And he could not come with the jovial crew

To have a look at the grand review.

But Britons you must understand,

There’ll be a grand review by sea and land,

No power in Europe beat it can,

With the foreigners in England.

They’re going to dine with a great Lord Mayor

And they’ll sit in a new mahogany chair,

Such lots of dainties are prepared,

For the foreigners in England.

They’ll have sausages seasoned high

Soused mackerel and rabbit pie,

Rashers of bacon nicely done,

Lobster sauce and donkey’s tongue,

Lots of crabs and pickled sprats,

Cabbage and onions covered in fat,

Skillygolee and paddywhack,

For the foreigners in England.

To the Crystal Palace they will go,

The Museum and National Gallery too,

To Windsor, Aldershot, and Kew,

All the foreigners in England.

They are going to visit Charing Cross,

To see old Charley sit on his horse,

Then to Buckingham Palace to have a game,

Then off they go to Petticoat Lane,

Where life in splendour they will see,

Fried fish and liver, and shockerhorsey,

Then have a bathe in the river Lea,

The foreigners in England.

Let us welcome them with a loud huzza,

You pretty maids get out of the way,

Old Jacky Bull will expenses pay,

For the foreigners in England:

Here’s the Viceroy from Egypt’s land

And Turkey’s Sultan hand-in-hand.

If he wants some wives for the ottoman plains

He can have all the women in Drury Lane.

So all pretty girls in London chaste

Go home to your mothers and wash your face,

Or perhaps they will collar you round the waist,

The foreigners in England.

When the foreigners reach their native shore,

They may say, we never saw before,

Such glorious sights, and we may no more,

As we beheld in England.

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс, Лондон.

ЧТО НАМ ДЕЛАТЬ С МЯСОМ!

Old England, once upon a time,

Was prosperous and gaily,

Great changes you shall hear in rhyme,

That taking place is daily.

A poor man once could keep a pig,

There was meat for every glutton,

Folks now may eat a parson’s wig,

For they’ll get no beef or mutton.

The times are queer, and things are dear,

Well, it really is alarming;

Up and down, country and town,

I think we’ll all be starving.

Although the times are very queer,

Some old women have a way got,

To raise themselves a drop of beer.

Or a drop of gin in the teapot.

If meat was seven shillings a pound,

Old Polly, Kit, and Sally,

Would find the means to guzzle down,

A little cream of the valley.

The butchers now, oh dear! oh dear!

Declare no meat they can sell,

Five thousand is gone to Colney Hatch,

And seven thousand to Hanwell.

Sixteen jumped in the water-butt,

Lamenting they did shiver,

Three ship-load sailed down to Gravesend town,

And went to sleep in the river.

Bullock’s head will be two shillings a pound,

And if I’m not mistaken,

We shall have to pay a half-a-crown

For a slice of rusty bacon.

I wonder what they do put in

The faggots and the sausages?—

Cold donkeys’ dung, says Biddy Flinn,

Candle ends and rotten cabbages.

The butchers now are gone to pot,

Crying, oh! such times was never,

They lay their heads on a greasy block,

Saying, we are done for ever.

They cannot cry, who’ll buy! who’ll buy!

Their marrow bones are aching,

For want of beef they seek relief,

And will be sent stone breaking.

Old Molly Bayton had a cat,

So handsome and adorning,

She would be moll-rowing all the night,

And mewing in the morning.

Last Friday night she killed a bird,

To death old Moll did beat it,

She put it in the pot to fry,

And her son Bill did eat it.

From a foreign land has come a man—

He really is a wonder—

He can raise mutton, veal, and lamb,

And veal by steam and thunder.

He the world to please, cures cattle disease,

His skin is a blueish yellow,

He carries a wand to banish the bugs,

Is he not a curious fellow?

Friends, never fret, there will be yet,

Good things, plenty and stunning,

Good beef to sell, we’ll all live well,

For there’s right good times a coming.

Lots of bulls with horns are being born,

Large buffaloes are standing,

New milk and cream will be made by steam,

And in Ireland pigs are lambing.

Though butchers’ meat to the poor’s a treat,

Just look at Ned and Nelly,

How they strut along, so says my song,

With a flashy back and hungry belly.

Have patience, folks, though ’tis no joke,

Smell at the cook shop windows,

If you want relief, and have got no beef,

Have a jolly blow out of cinders.

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс, Лондон.

ПЯТНАДЦАТЬ ШИЛЛИНГОВ В НЕДЕЛЮ.

Напев: — «Король островов каннибалов»

A man and his wife in —— street,

With seven children young and sweet,

Had a jolly row last night complete,

About fifteen shillings a week, sir.

He gave his wife a clumsy clout,

Saying, how is all my money laid out,

Tell me quickly he did shout,

And then she soon did set about

Reckoning up without delay,

What she had laid out from day to day,

You shall know what’s done, the wife did say,

With fifteen shillings a week, sir.

Seven children to keep and find in clothes,

And to his wife he did propose,

To reckon how the money goes,

His fifteen shillings a week, sir.

Threepence-halfpenny a week for milk is spent,

One-and-ninepence a week for rent,

For the children a penny for peppermint,

Out of fifteen shillings a week, sir;

For tobacco eightpence every week,

A half-a-crown for butcher’s meat,

And to make your tea complete,

A three-farthing bloater for a treat,

A penny a week for cotton and thread,

Last Sunday, tenpence a small sheep’s head,

Ninepence-halfpenny a day for bread,

Out of fifteen shillings a week, sir.

Potatoes for dinner there must be found,

And there’s none for less than a penny a pound,

And I must have a sixpenny gown,

Out of fifteen shillings a week, sir.

A pennorth of starch, a farthing blue,

Twopence-halfpenny soap and potash too,

A ha’porth of onions to make a stew,

Three-halfpence a day small beer for you,

A quartern of butter, sixpennorth of fat,

And to wipe your shoes a twopenny mat,

One halfpenny a day to feed the cat,

Out of fifteen shillings a week, sir.

Ninepence a week for old dry peas,

Sixpence sugar, eightpence tea,

Pepper, salt, and mustard, farthings three,

Out of fifteen shillings a week, sir.

One and tenpence-halfpenny, understand,

Every week for firing out of hand,

Threepence-halfpenny candles, a farthing sand,

And threepence to bottom the frying-pan;

A twopenny broom to sweep the dirt,

Three-ha’porth of cloth to mend your shirt,

Now don’t you think you’re greatly hurt,

Out of fifteen shillings a week, sir.

Clothes for Tommy, Dick, Sal, Polly, and Jane,

And Jimmy and Betty must have the same;

You had a sixpenny jacket in Petticoat Lane,

Out of fifteen shillings a week, sir.

For shaving, a halfpenny twice a week,

A penny to cut your hair so neat,

Threepence for the socks upon your feet,

Last week you bought a tenpenny seat

Besides, old chap, I had most forgot,

You gave a penny for a kidney pie, all hot,

And threepence for an old brown chamberpot.

Out of fifteen shillings a week, sir.

So now, old chap, you plainly see,

If you can reckon as well as me,

There is little waste in our family,

Out of fifteen shillings a week, sir.

There’s many a woman would think it no sin,

To spend the whole in snuff and gin!

When again to reckon you do begin,

Recollect there’s a farthing a week for pins,

To make things right my best I’ve tried,

That’s economy can’t be denied.

Dear wife, said he, I’m satisfied,

Out of fifteen shillings a week, sir.

So you women all the kingdom through,

To you this might appear quite new,

Just see if you the same can do,

With fifteen shillings a week, sir.

Лондон: Г. САЧ, машинный печатник и издатель, 177, Юнион-стрит, Боро — Ю.-В.

ВЕЛИКАЯ СЕЛЬСКОХОЗЯЙСТВЕННАЯ ВЫСТАВКА.

Hurrah, my lads, this is the day,

When tens of thousands haste away;

Rich and poor, high and low,

Are off to the Agricultural Show.

CHORUS.

Sing the ploughboy’s song,

Dance the milkman’s dance,

What glorious fun, away they run,

Kicking up their heels in the morning.

Heigho! away they go,

Jolly young fellows all of a row,

Don’t get kissing the girls you know,

At the Agricultural Show.

Now at the Show some sights you’ll find,

To delight the eye and improve the mind,

Carts, waggons, patent ploughs,

Horses, bulls, and Alderney cows.

There’s scythes, sickles, forks and rakes,

Ganders, turkeys, ducks and drakes,

Chickens, hens, and cocks that crow,

Is seen at the Agricultural Show.

There’s buckets, churns, milk-pails,

Washing tubs, and Chowbent nails;

All sorts of flowers and fruit that grow,

At the Agricultural Show.

There is some young men got on the spree,

And lushey got as they could be,

An old cobler they met, they made him so drunk,

That he went to smoke his short pipe at the pump.

A man from London brought his wife,

Indeed it is true upon my life,

To tell you all that she can do,

She can lick Jem Mace and Heenan too.

From miles around they come by train,

Into the town to see the game;

And the country lads are always right,

They won’t go home till broad daylight.

Two or three machines of every kind,

To go by water or by wind;

Some to stop old people’s tongues,

And one to grind old people young.

There are Lancashire clogs and Cheshire cheese,

London bugs and Suffolk fleas,

You cannot sleep a wink at night,

They are such devils for to fight.

There’s a farmer’s daughter,—sweet eighteen,

With nineteen hoops in her crinoline;

It’s just a mile round the brim of her hat,

She has got a cock-eye and a hump on her back.

Triumphal arches I’ll be bound,

Decorating —— —— town;

With hearts so light and spirits gay,

Hark! how the bands of music play.

Some young ladies dress’d in white,

Will be stopping out all night;

If you should wink why they will wait,

Upon the road by the turnpike gate.

Oh, lovely night, when all alone,

The lads and lasses toddling home;

In a few months’ time the girls will show

The game was played coming from the Show.

The farmers’ lads will you not mind,

The factory girls will dress so fine,

They’ll go and leave the silk machine,

To make little boys and girls by steam.

ДЕЛО О БЕЗУМИИ УИНДХЭМА.

Парень, которому нужны были деньги.

Леди, которая получила драгоценности.

Oh, dear! what a rumpus and bother,

From one end of England right bang to the other,

The lawyers their wigs pelted one at the other,

Young Windham has conquered them all.

They swore he was mad, that he acted quite funny,

Imitated the cat, and stood just like a dummy,

The fact was, you see, that they wanted his money,

But now the old soldier is licked.

Oh, dear! what can the matter be?

Swearing and humbugging, jawing and flattery,

They may now go and hang themselves up to an apple tree,

Young Windham has conquered them all.

Before there was never such pulling and tearing,

The tales that was told was really unbearing,

Such bawling, such pushing, such talking, & swearing,

To prove that young Windham was mad.

Because he thought proper to marry a wife, sir,

Because he was happy and cheerful through life, sir,

’Twas money, the money, that caused the strife, sir,

But young Windham has conquer’d them all.

Sometimes he would Mackney be imitating,

I wish I was with Nancy! he oft would be stating,

In the Strand, in the Strand! as I am relating,

And then they all swore he was mad.

Because on the engine he went fast and slow, now,

And with the ladies he used for to go now,

Then holloa like winking, Bob Ridley, O! now,

Well, but that wouldn’t make him be mad.

Not far from St. James’s some coveys were dwelling,

They such wonderful tales to the jury was telling,

And there was a lot that was named Llewellin,

Who spun a most wonderful yarn.

That sometimes he was naked, & drunk too, I vow, sir,

That he crowed & moll rowed, & kick’d up a row, sir,

And wetted sometimes the back part of his trousers,

And they swore to be sure he was mad.

Now young Windham has conquered them all, and is right, sir,

He may fight, drink and sing, be enjoying his pipe, sir,

And he with his money can do as he likes, sir,

He has licked the old soldier right well.

The weeping old soldier is beat, he is done, sir,

He may slip on his knapsack and follow the drum, sir,

Or march thro’ the country, and shoulder his gun, sir,

It’s a chance if he doesn’t go mad.

Through all the set speeches of Montague Chambers,

If he carried the day we should all be in danger,

They’d have made us all mad, and there’s nothing more stranger,

But into the madhouse we’d go!

Oh, the money, the money, they wanted the money,

And that was the thing made the parties feel funny,

There was rough tales, and smooth tales, and tales told like honey,

But it didn’t make young Windham go mad.

Here’s success to the jury who acted so clever,

Do you think they’d be bias’d, oh no, they would never,

Drink their health in a bumper, may they live for ever,

And we hope they will never go mad.

When the trial was over, young Windham not fear’d them,

And the public as soon as ever they near’d him,

Hurrah’d him right well, and so heartily cheer’d him,

And declar’d that he never was mad.

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс, Лондон.

СТАРЫЙ МАРКИЗ И ЕГО ЦВЕТУЩАЯ ЖЕНА.

Oh, here’s a jolly lark,

Some strife perhaps there may be,

A Marquis had a wife,

Oh, such a blooming lady;

She married him they say,

For title, and remember,

’Twas lovely Miss May,

And old Mister December.

Old Fidgets lost his wife,

And sorely now does grumble

When he goes to bed at night,

He’s nobody to fumble.

The old man is seventy eight,

As sprightly as a donkey,

Such a noble friend is he

To the Italians & the monkeys.

The lady he did wed,

He married her one Monday,

Blooming, young, and fair,

Only seventeen come Sunday.

He cuddled her so sweet,

The damsel he did flatter,

Singing I for Bobbing Joan,

And she for stoney batter;

An angel from above,

The poor old man did think her,

But oh dear, she ran away

One morning with a tinker.

The old Marquis lost his wife,

And he was in a sad mess,

Miss was a lady gay,

An Irish Marchioness;

Lovely seventeen,

He could not discard her—

Wedded she thought she’d been

Unto her great grandfather.

Five hundred bright pounds,

The damages, that got he,

Against the naughty man

Who robbed him of his lady.

The lawyers they did chaff,

What fun in court, oh law there

They caught her snug in bed,

In Sheffield town, in Yorkshire.

This blooming damsel fair,

Has such a lovely pimple,

Such pretty chesnut hair,

And nigh her mouth a dimple;

A bustle made of gold,

And I can now remember,

A crinoline to hold

Poor old Mister December.

Old men, take my advice,

Or taken in you may be,

If you should wed a nice,

Sweet frolicsome young lady;

A gay, young Mister June,

Perhaps they may connive at,

To play to her a tune,

Just now and then in private.

The poor old man is mad,

Though he has lots of riches,

He wants another wife,

Or a larger pair of breeches;

Though past three score and ten,

If one should meet his fancy.

He says he’ll marry again,—

Oh! don’t I love my Nancy.

When he married his sweet wife

He didn’t care for nothing,

He used to lace her stays,

And then tie up her stockings

He kissed her lovely lips,

What a darling he did think her,

But she soon gave him the slip,

And bolted with the tinker.

A single man again,

His lordship now will be, sirs,

Just threescore and eighteen,

But another wife wants he, sirs,

To cuddle him at night,

And his old knees be warming,

What a lark if his next wife

Should cut away in the morning.

She got old Fidgets off,

Made cock sure all right,

And with the Yorkshire blade

She danced a jig at night.

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс, Лондон.

СВАДЬБА ЦВЕТУЩЕЙ ЛЕДИ И КОНЮХА.

There was a beauty bright,

At Woking she did dwell,

Her father had a handsome groom,

And his daughters loved him well.

They used to trot away,

Conversing on the land,

Oh! Alice Caroline dearly loved

Her father’s servant man.

Alice loved her father’s groom,

She longed to take his hand,

No one can separate her

From her father’s servant man.

She is twenty years of age,

As blythe as e’er was seen,

And George, the groom, was a youth in bloom,

Is aged but eighteen.

She dearly loved her George,

She by his side would stand,

She vowed no one should part her,

From her father’s servant man.

George and Caroline would toy,

Each other they would please,

Each other they would kiss,

And tiddle each other’s knees.

They swore by all above,

Did together fondly plan,

To dear each other, lovely

Alice and her servant man.

From Woking they set out,

Thinking e’er they far had got,

A lovely chance they’d have

To tie the lovers’ knot.

They disappointed was,

And they amazed did stand,

Then young Alice went to Wandsworth

With her father’s servant man.

The banns they did put up,

Alice and her father’s groom,

And in Love Lane, in Wandsworth,

They together took a room:

Saying they were man and wife.

As the young lady blythe did stand,

Vowed she would lose her life,

Or wed her father’s servant man.

But mark! young men and maids,

Sad was the lovers’ fate;

They were by her father took

Before the magistrate;

Alice boldly faced them all,

As she at the Bar did stand,

And swore she ran away

With her father’s servant man.

Have her Georgy Smith she would

For he had gained her heart;

No power in the world,

She and her groom should part.

Like a maiden in despair,

She would wander through the land,

If they would not let her wed,

Her father’s servant man.

May they both united be,

And live a happy life,

May the pretty sweet Miss Crosse,

Be a kind and loving wife;

And may she ne’er regret

She did at the altar stand,

By the side of Georgy Smith,

Her father’s servant man.

You Weybridge pretty girls,

You Chertsey lads and lasses gay,

Can you blame me ’cause from Woking

With my love I run away?

You girls of Guildford town,

Together we will trill,

To see the pleasant fair,

At the place called Catharine Hill.

This lovely pretty maid,

The parson’s daughter all in bloom,

Declares she’ll never have another man,

Unless she has her groom.

She loves him as her life,

And may she dance a jig,

And may she have a little boy,

Marked with a parson’s wig.

Напечатано для владельцев, господ Сэвилла, Лаки и Ко.

ДЕЛО О БРАКЕ ЕЛВЕРТОНА. ЛЕДИ ПОБЕДИЛА СОЛДАТА.

You are all aware as well as me,

There has been great consternation,

In Dublin has a trial been

Which excited all the nation;

There was a blooming lady, who

Did wed a soldier laddie,

And he was afraid of his mamma,

And he dare not tell his daddy.

The lady licked the soldier well,

Cause he refused to take her,

And the Irish lads were all so glad,

To see her beat the Major.

He is the son of a great lord,

Stand at ease, and order;

He took a bonny, blooming maid

Over the Scottish border;

He told her pretty tales of love,

Embraced her round the middle,

And when they were at Gretna Green

The Major caught the fiddle.

He took then to Paddy’s land,

So gentle, meek, and clever,

He disgraced the Holy Church of Rome,

He did, the naughty fellow;

He vowed that she was not his wife,

And caused a pretty bother,

He clapped his knapsack on his back,

Then went and married another.

Brave Serjeant Sullivan was the man,

No lawyer could be bolder,

With gallant Whiteside went to work,

And fired away at the soldier;

While every upright person there

The lady pitied, who was round her,

The sheepish Major droop’d his head,

And pop went the powder.

He was a Major, a Lord’s son,

As evil as a monkey,

All the religion that he cared about,

Was who had got most money;

The fool was of no creed at all,

The Church of Rome defied a sad way,

He could swear a lie thro’ a nine inch wall,

And cover his nob with pipeclay.

Now like a brick the soldier’s licked,

And his coronet is troubling,

She shamed him in the Four Courts,

In the good old town of Dublin;

They made the naughty soldier jump,

If the ladies could have caught him,

They would have ducked him underneath the pump,

And better manners taught him.

He drove the lady round and round,

While riches she had any;

To Waterford and to Belfast,

To Bantry and Kilkenny;

He disgraced the Holy Church of Rome,

The naughty soldier laddy,

And all because he was afraid

Of a flogging from his daddy.

He has made a pretty kettle of fish,

He has lost his wife and baby,

The Dublin lasses shout huzza!

May Heaven bless the lady;

She like a brick the Major licked,

The naughty wicked soldier,

He bolted out of Dublin town,

With his firelock on his shoulder.

If to Gretna Green he goes again,

To play his hey down diddle,

Let the ladies pray both night and day,

That he may get the fiddle!

And then go mad to Ballinafad,

Where they will stand no parley,

So cut your stick, your Irish licked,

And a regular guy is Charlie.

He married a wife and then made strife,

Such terrible tales he told her,

It was such sport in the Dublin court,

To see Sullivan drill the soldier.

НЕПОСЛУШНЫЙ ЛОРД И ВЕСЕЛАЯ МОЛОДАЯ ЛЕДИ, УБЫТКИ — 10 000 ФУНТОВ.

There is a pretty piece of work,

It is up in high life,

Upon my word an amorous lord,

Seduced another man’s wife;

She was a lady of title,

She was charming, young, and fair,

With her daddy and her mammy once

She lived in Belgrave Square.

The trial now is over,

And his lordship, with a frown,

For kissing Lady Nelly

Has to pay ten thousand pounds.

Lord G—— was a naughty lord,

Oh! how could he engage,

To seduce young Lady Ellen,—

He is sixty years of age.

The verdict of the jury

Made his lordship quake and jump,

Ten thousand pounds he has to pay,

For playing tiddly bump.

Lady Nelly left her husband,

And would with his lordship be,

She would trim his lordship’s whiskers

As she sat upon his knee.

Some said oh, lack-a-daisy,

She was in a comical way!

His lordship was bald-pated,

And his hair and whiskers grey.

My lord was very fond of lamb,—

The cook said so at least,—

And neighbours you must understand

He liked the belly piece.

His lordship loved the lady,

And the lady she loved he,

His lordship played by music,

The tune called fiddle-de-dee.

His lordship when he heard the news,

Caused his eyes to flash like fire then

He looked around, ten thousand pounds

His lordship holloaed, “wire-em.”

He sold his hat, he pawned his coat,

To pay the browns, we find,

And then he run round Hyde Park sqre,

With his shirt hanging out behind.

Sweet Ellen was a daughter

Of my Lord and Lady C——

And once lived in a mansion,

Yes she did in Belgrave Square,

Sweet Ellen had an husbund,

An honest upright man,

And his lordship went a trespassing

Upon her husband’s land.

My lord was fond of sporting,

And hunting of the hare,

He has to pay ten thousand pounds,

The damage to repair;

His lordship played the fiddle,

Down in Scotia’s land, ’tis said,

And his lordship must have fiddled well

Both in and out of bed.

Now all young lords take warning,

“When a hunting you do go,

In the evening or the morning

Pray beware of “Tally-ho!”

If you are caught a trespassing

On other people’s ground,

Perhaps you’ll be like old Lord G——

Made to pay ten thousand pounds.

The lady’s injured husband,

Has nobly gained the day,

And beat old Mr December,

Who seduced young Lady May.

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс, Лондон.

ЗАБАСТОВКА ПОДМАСТЕРЬЕВ-ПОРТНЫХ.

Oh have you heard the jolly row,

In London all around, just now,

If not, I’ll tell you all, I vow,

It is the strike of the Journeymen Tailors

The masters and the men you see,

They cannot very well agree,

The masters they won’t alter the log,

The men say they shall, so help their bob;

The masters say the men are wrong,

But the men say they are too strong,

So I suppose they must settle it themselves among,

This strike of the journeymen Tailors,

The sleeveboard and goose may idle lay,

The needle and bobkin is stowed away,

Oh, is there not the devil to pay,

Thro’ the strike of the Journeyman Tailors

Now ever since the world began,

They say nine tailors makes a man,

But do without them they never can,

The host of the Journeymen Tailors.

For indebted to their work ’tis clear,

Is kings and dukes, and lords and peers,

They are wanted here, and wanted there,

And all they want is to play fair.

And they must get it, these men of stitches,

Or what shall we do for coats and breeches,

We must black and go naked, or hide in ditches

Thro’ the strike of the Journeymen Tailors.

Now the tailors are of ancient date,

Believe it’s true, what I now state,

And I’ll tell you the time if you’ll only wait

When the world was first blessed with a tailor

The first there was, tho’ I never see’d him,

Had his workshop in the garden of Eden,

And I tell you he was not a green ’un,

Tho’ he grew lots of cabbage to feed on;

He stitched away when the world began,

And made fig leaf togs, A No. 1,

He was a regular Flint, and never a Dung,

It was Adam, the first of the tailors.

What we shall do, I do not know,

If the men to work they will not go,

We shall walk about just like scarecrows,

Thro’ the strike of the Journeymen Tailors.

We shall be all rags and jags,

And only fit for the ragman’s bags,

Or to make a sign for some rag shop,

With just enough left to make a mop;

Oh wont it be a funny go,

To see the swells in Rotton Row,

With their shirt tails flying in the wind, as they go,

Thro’ the strike of the Journeymen Tailors.

An old lady the other day did run,

Into the shop of Moses and Son,

Saying, please Mr Mo, are you a Dung;

Don’t you know there’s a strike with the tailors!

Then round the corner she did pop,

Saying, is this not a sweating shop,

Then he holloa’d police, but it was no use,

For she flattened his nose with a ten pound goose,

Now they tell me the sleeveboards looked quite big,

And round old ———— they danced a jig,

Saying, we shall have a rest, so please the pigs

Thro’ the strike of the Journeymen Tailors.

Now let us hope we soon shall see,

The masters and the men agree,

For fair play is the style for me,

With all classes, as well as the tailors.

If they don’t go in, I do declare,

We soon shall have no breeches to wear,

But that my friend is only a joke,

So, if I offend, I am sorry I spoke.

We all for the biggest shilling fight,

And I think you will own that I am right,

But jolly good luck I say, blow me tight,

To the whole of the Journeymen Tailors.

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс.

ЗАМЕЧАТЕЛЬНЫЙ МИСТЕР СПЕРДЖЕН.

Oh! there is such a wonderful man,

Just listen to my sequel,

I’m sure throughout the British land

There never was his equal.

He’s such a chap to preach and teach,

Father, mother, son, and daughter,

And for to hear this wonderful man

They run from every quarter.

This wonderful man surprises the land,

Parson, lawyer, snob, and surgeon,

From every place they run a race,

To the wonderful man call’d Spurgeon.

He can please the duke, the lord, & squire

And ladies with gold lockets,

He can make the very sovereigns jump

Out of old women’s pockets.

He can look above, and look below,

And deeply groan, and sigh, ah!

He can shake the rocks and swallow the whale

He’s a greater man than Jonah.

Oh, such a sermon he can preach,