THE CITY CONCERT.
"Paulo Minora canemus."
Tune—"Alley Croker."
When Caroline, the great and big,
Was feasted in the City, Sir,
United Radical and Whig,
In malice or in pity, Sir,
Invited every Cockney dame
The Royal cause to lift on;
No matter what her rank or name,
If she had but a shift on.
Oh! such shifts! the flaunting belles of Drury
Are neat to those of Crooked Lane, Ram Alley, and Old Jewry.
A few there were, not so obscure,
Who boasted of clean linen;
But they, as all their friends assure,
Were driven by their men, in;
Who thought that after such delay
The Queen would be extinguish-ed,
Unless the blustering Times could say,
That some few were "distinguish-ed."
Oh, poor Times! how sad a scrape you have got in,
Whose proud distinction is at best, 'twixt addled eggs and rotten.
To face at once so rank a crowd
The Queen was thought unable,
So Thorp, he begg'd to be allow'd
To hand her to a table,
Where wine, and something better still,
That smelt like Maraschino,
Might, if administer'd with skill,
Give courage to the Queen Oh.
Oh the Queen! the sober Queen of Britain,
She very soon was in a state an armed chair to sit on.
When safely seated in this chair,
The females were paraded,
And like a showman, the Lord Mayor,
The honours of the day did.
Mrs. Thorp herself came first,
("Her maiden name was Twigs, ma'am,")
Who curtseying low, cried, "May I burst,
But I adore your wig, Ma'am.
Oh your wig! your wig so black and curl'd, Ma'am,
That like the whiskers of a Jew it looks for all the world, Ma'am."
The Queen, who thought this speech a scoff,
Exclaim'd, "Mon Dieu quel fardeau."
So Mrs. Mayor was hurried off,
And up flounced Dame Ricardo.
Quoth Thorp, "This lady whom you view,
Her head so lofty carrying,
Is one, whom an Oporto Jew
Cut off his son for marrying."
Oh the son! his figure would not please ill
One whose taste might chance to lie between an owl and weasel.
The Queen, at seeing Mrs. Sykes,
Was ready to affront her;
No German Princess more dislikes
These gentry of the counter.
"But mean and vulgar as you think her,"
Said Thorp, "you needs must thank her,
Because her dad, though once a tinker,
Did become a banker."
Oh, the dad! fit sire of such a filly,
At the race-ball at Doncaster they call'd her orange-lily.
Next Mrs. Wilde the presence graced,
The splendour to increase, Ma'am;
"Though lowly born, she has a taste,
And been, like you, in Greece, Ma'am;
And though she wed a peaceful squire,
Was for a tar more fitted,
For she is used to standing fire,
And was brought up at Spit-head."
Oh, the fire of poor Devaynes's kitchen,
From whose hot coals she stole the blush that makes her so bewitching.
Scowling Williams next produces
What he calls his family;
It is a mode he oddly chooses
Down our throats to cram a lie;
His real wife is safe in bed,
Not dreaming of such folly;
Perhaps the fellow, in her stead,
Has brought his Vauxhall dolly.
Oh, the drab! her crime is doubly heinous,
Who could condescend to be that yellow Vulcan's Venus?
So far so well; but now the Quire
For harmony enlisted,
"Threw all the fat into the fire,"
(As Mrs. Wilde express'd it.)
The blundering dogs began to sing,
With all their might and energies,
"God preserve our noble King,
And confound his enemies!"
Oh, the Brutes! the Queen was well nigh fainting,
And would have blush'd, if one could blush beneath three coats of painting.
In anger, for her coach she roar'd,
And into it, when ready,
She trundled, handed by my Lord,
And followed by my Lady.
And so they drove home in the dark,
The beau and his two graces,
Like (as a florist might remark)
Under a Hood two faces.
Oh, the Hood! convenient garb for lovers,
For none but they can truly say how many sins it covers.