HOW WE GOT TO THE BRIGHTON REBLEW
H, Brighton's the place
For a beautiful face,
And a figure that gracefully made is;
And so far as I know
There's none other can show,
At the right time of year—say November or so—
Such a bevy of pretty young ladies.
Such blows on the Down!
Such lounges thro' Town!
Such a crush at Parade and Pavilion!
Such beaches below!
(Where people don't go),
Such bathing!—Such dressing, past Madame Tussaud!—
No wonder it catches the Million!
For bustle and breeze
And a sniff of salt seas
Oh, Brighton's the place!—not a doubt of it;—
But instead of post-chaise
Or padded coupes
If you had to get there a la excursionaise—
(Which Trench
Says is French
For a seat on a bench,
With an even toss up if you frizzle or drench)—
I think you'd be glad to keep out of it!
With their slap dash, crack crash,
And here and there a glorious smash,
And a hundred killed and wounded,—
It's little our jolly Directors care,
For a Passenger's neck if he pays his fare,
So away you go at a florin a pair,
The signal whistle has sounded!
Off at last
An hour past
The time, and carriages tight-full;
Why this should be
We can't quite see,
But of course it's all a part of the spree,
And it's really most delightful!
Crush, pack—
Brighton and back—
All the way for a shilling,—
What'prentice cit
But doesn't admit
Tho' ten in a row is an awkwardish fit,
At the price it's exceedingly filling!
(Chorus of Passengers.)
Crash, crack—
Brighton and back—
All the way for a shilling,—
Tho' the pace be slow
We're likely to go
A long journey before we get back d'you know,
The speed's so remarkably "killing"!
Ho! "slow" you find?
Then off, like the wind—
With a jerk that to any unprejudiced mind
Feels strongly as if it had come from behind—
Away like mad we clatter;
Bang—slap,—bang—rap,—
"Can't somebody manage to see what has hap—?"
There goes Jones's head!—no, it's only his cap!—
Jones, my boy, who's your hatter?
Slow it is, is it? jump jolt,
Slithering wheel and starting bolt,
Staggering, reeling, and rocking,—
Now we're going it!—-jolt jump,
Whack thwack, thump bump,—
It's a mercy we're all stuck fast in a lump,
The permanent way is shocking!
Away we rattle—we race—we fly!—
Mrs. Brown is certain she's going to die,
'We've our own ideas on that point, you and I)
But this pitching will make evry one ill,—
Screech scream—groan grunt—
Express behind, and Luggage in front,—
If we have good luck we may manage to shunt
Before we get into the tunnel!
(Chorus of Passengers.)
Jump, jolt—
Engines that bolt—
Brighton and back for a shilling—
Jolt jump—but we've children and wives,
Jump jolt—who value our lives,
Jump—and you won't catch one here again who survives
The patent process of killing!
(Chorus of Directors.)
With our slap dash, crack crash,
And here and there a glorious smash
And a hundred killed and wounded!—
It's little we jolly directors care
For a passenger's limbs if he pays his fare,
So away you go at a florin the pair,
The signal whistle has sounded!!