COFFIN CLUB.
CONSTITUTIONAL DIRGE.
Costume.—Members to appear in black or faded crape cravats, tobacco-boxes in the shape of patent coffins, the end of the pipes to be put in mourning, with black sealing wax, white pocket handkerchiefs (if convenient) to catch the tears.
N. B. A heavy fine on persons indulging in that foolish practice, called laughter.—“Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.”—Secretary. The president, whoever he may be, for the evening, to be called—Mr. Undertaker; and whoever takes the chair, grave subjects will be expected from him.
To the Solemn Tune of “Jack Ran.”
Ye giddy youth, in life’s gay spring,
Who wanton joke, laugh, drink, and sing;
Ah, look at us, and change your ways,
In sackcloth we spend all our days.
CHORUS—WITH A GROAN.
May fate bestow what’s good for you,
Horrors jet black, and devils dark blue.
Did you but know how sweet is grief,
The flowing tears that yield relief;
Sweet sorrow’s sigh, heart-heaving moan,
Your life wou’d be one grunt and groan.
For life’s like bubbles made by rain,
No sooner come, but gone again;
So we must go, as ’tis our doom,
To make for other bubbles room.
Then ne’er rejoice, or e’er look glad,
Keep cloudy front, and visage sad;
For life’s a flake of smoke at best,
And not as poet’s say, “a jest.”
Away with idle hopes and fears,
Cut short your days, and nights, and years;
When desp’rate grown, and hating life
Go off by water, rope, or knife.
Coffins to be shewn.
Then comes this tight-screw’d patent case,
The undertaker’s last embrace;
Fast lock’d in which, four feet in ground,
We’re safe until the trumpet’s sound.
But, hark! the sexton tolls the bell!
So coffin comrades fare ye well.
THE
TOY.
At Hampton-court a mansion stands,
A tavern, called the Toy, sir,
A captain there and ensign came,
A seeming beardless boy, sir;
The waiter shew’d ’em both a room,
And as the story teaches,
He shortly saw the captain’s hand
Within the ensign’s breeches!
The captain damn’d the waiter’s soul,
And bid him straight retire, sir,
The ensign swore, in bouncing tone,
He’d throw him on the fire, sir!
“I beg your pardon, sirs,” said he,
And thus express my sorrow,
“This is the Toy at Hampton-court,
“Not Sodom and Gomorrah!”
Away the waiter ran down stairs,
No waiter e’er ran faster,
Half out of breath he told the tale
To Boniface, his master;
A council at the bar agreed,
That chambermaid and cook, sir,
To give proof of their dirty tricks,
Should thro’ the key-hole look, sir.
So up went cooky first, and spied
The parties billing, cooing,
When to herself, she said, “God’s curse,”
“What nasty work’s a brewing;”
I’ll spit ’em, baste ’em, roast ’em too,
I’ll clyster-pipe the fellows,
Then straight with water scalding hot,
She fill’d the kitchen bellows.
Nell chambermaid next crept up stairs,
Saw th’ ensign on a table,
The captain charging ’twixt his legs,
With bayonet so able;
“I’ll tuck you up, I’ll warm your bed,
“And when warm in your places,”
Said Nell, “I’ll scorch your nasty scuts,
“Throw p—s in both your faces.”
The laundress swore she’d mangle ’em,
The dairy-maid would skim ’em,
The bar-maid vow’d she’d squeeze ’em too,
The ostler swore he’d trim ’em;
The post-boy was for whipping them,
The boots, for brushing, beating,
The scullion was for scow’ring them,
The waiter was for cheating.
The landlord up stairs led the way,
His servants follow’d after,
They found the captain full of play,
The ensign full of laughter;
The captain cry’d out, “Who’s afraid?”
But th’ ensign look’d disgrace, sir,
And carried, as the landlord said,
The colours in his face, sir.
Old Boniface said, “fie for shame!
“Sure, captain, you are no man,
“You lie,” said he, “and look ye here,
“My ensign is a woman;”
And when he ope’d her waistcoat wide,
The parties were struck dumb, sir,
For a pair of bubbies bolted out,
God Cupid’s kettle drums, sir.
The cook said to the ensign gay,
“I’m quite up to the rig, sir,
“You Sodomiters, people say,
“Have breasts as dumplings big, sir;
“And ’till I feel I’ll not believe,
“For I knows dogs from bitches,”
And saying this, she thrust her hand
Into the ensign’s breeches!
The captain, in a passion, flew
To his fair friend’s assistance,
He damn’d the cooky for a whore,
And bid her keep her distance;
She’d laid her hand upon the place,
That spreads the ensign’s p—s, sir,
Then looking humbly in his face,
Said, “beg your pardon miss—sir.”