What Will Mrs. Grundy Say?

Oh, fashion now is all the rage in houses, hoops, and dress;

And each must do what others do—they dare not think of less.

Mrs. Grundy is the queen of all mankind to-day;

And each one thinks before she acts of—What will Grundy say?

Mr. Tompkins fail’d last fall, and is not worth a red,

But still he lives upon the “Fifth,” and still holds up his head.

They keep their carriage all the same, though not a dime they pay;

They can’t retrench a cent, for shame of—What would Grundy say?

There’s Mary Jane, she’s tall and slim, a sack of bonesshe’s grown,

And brown as any Gipsy girl, and awkward as a clown;

Yet she must wear her dresses low, and her thin neck display,

For ’tis the fashion; and you know, What would Dame Grundy say?

There’s Mrs. Jones, she’s fifty-four, and still she curls her hair,

Although all know it is a wig the vain old dame doth wear,

She gives of balls, each season two, and wastes her wealth away

For she must do as others do, else, what would Grundy say?

There’s fat and stumpy Martha Ann, that weighs two hundred pounds,

She’s a bait to catch a man, but not a bite has found.

And though she is so short and stout, she promenades Broadway;

Her skirts are thirty feet about, Oh, what will Grundy say?

There’s shanghai coats and bad cigars, and Musard’s new cravats;

There’s paper collars and wristbands, and bell-crown’d, small-brimm’d hats;

For comfort, ease, and common-sense, must yield to fashion’s sway;

For now the sole prevailing thought is, what will Grundy say?

Old Dog Tray.
No. 2.

The morning meal is past—the next is coming fast—

’Twill bring me a bill that I know I can not pay,

For meats, both fat and lean, that I was jolly green

To trust beside that old dog Tray.

CHORUS

Old dog Tray! always hungry—

Meat can not drive him away;

With his tail “druv” in behind, neither gentle nor yet kind

Is that hungry dog, that old dog Tray.

I hurried home one night, with a rousing appetite,

For nothing had I tasted the whole of that long day.

But Oh! how I was done—not a thing was left but bone—

All eaten by that old dog Tray.

Old dog Tray, &c.

The steaks I thought my own, had vanish’d one by one—

Those cutlets, those chops too, had all pass’d away;

Those tenderloins were gone—they each and all had flown—

Stolen by that old dog Tray.

Old dog Tray, &c.

With naught to break my fast, my eyes on Tray I cast,

Who look’d as though he felt what my breaking heart would say;

But oh! ’twas all deceit—’twas he who stole my meat,

That hungry dog, that old dog Tray.

Old dog Tray, &c.