“ICHABOD!”
GOG, loquitur:—
Here’s a pretty fine business, my MAGOG!!! Where are we a-drifting to now?
These here tears in my eyes you must twig; I detect the glum gloom on your brow.
Most natural, MAGOG, most natural! Loyal old giants, like us,
Must be cut to the heart by these times, which they get every year wus and wus!
It’s Ikybod, MAGOG; I see it a-written all over the shop.
Our glory’s departed, old partner. And where is it going for to stop?
That Feast of BELSHAZZER weren’t in it for worritting warnings of woe;
Which our beautiful Annual Banquet will soon not be worth half a blow.
It’s not half a blow-out as it is, not compared with old glorious gorges.
I wish, oh I wish, MAGOG mine, we was back in the times of the GEORGES,
Or even DICK WHITTINGTON’s days, which for Giants was quite good enough;
But they’ve spoilt all the good things of life with their Science, and Progress, and stuff.
I see how it’s drifting, dear MAGOG. The Munching House and the Gildhall.
Did use to be London’s fust pride. Is it so in these days? Not at all!
Whippersnappers cock snooks at us, MAGOG; A ignerent pert L.C.C.,
To whom Calipash is a mistry, whose soul never loved Calipee,
A feller elected by groundlings, who can’t tell Madeira from Port,
Some sour-faced suburban Dissenter—he, MAGOG, may make us his sport,
Without being popped in the pillory! Proper old punishment that!
As all the old punishments was. We’re a-getting too flabby, that’s flat.
The gallows, the stocks, and the pillory kept rebel rascals in hor,
But now every jumped-up JACK CADE, or WAT TYLER can give us his jor
Hot-and-hot, without fear of brave WALWORTH’s sharp dagger, or even a shower
Of stones, rotten heggs, and dead cats. Yah! The People has far too much power
With their wotes, and free speech, and such fudge. Ah! if GLADSTONE, and ASQUITH, and BURNS,
And a tidy few more of their sort, in the pillory just took their turns,
Like that rapscallion, DANIEL DEFOE, what a clearance he’d have of the cads
Who worrit us out of our lives with Reform, and such humbugging fads!
MAGOG, loquitur:—
Ah, GOG, I am quite of your mind! Which I don’t mind admitting that KNILL
To a Protestant Giant like me was the least little bit of a pill.
Stillsomever, he’s Lord Mayor now, and did ought to be backed up as such,
For what City Fathers determine it ain’t for outsiders to touch.
But where are the Big Pots? The Banquet seems shorn of its splendour to-day.
No Premier, nor no Foreign Sec., nor no Chancellor!!! Really, I say
This is rascally Radical imperence! How can they dare stop away,
From the greatest event of the year, when the words of ripe wisdom, well wined,
Should fall from grave turtle-fed lips to make heasy the poor Public mind,
As when PALMERSTON, DIZZY, and SALISBURY, spoke from that time-honoured Chair!
And that GLADSTONE—he ain’t no great loss!—but to think the Woodchopper should dare
To neglect his fust duty like this!!! Oh! it’s Ikybod, just as you say,
My GOG. Civic glory’s burst up, and the splendour of Lord Mayor’s Day
Is eclipsed by that L.C.C. lot and their backers. I’m full, GOG, of fears;
The look-out’s enough to depress us, and move the poor Turtle to tears.
It’s Ikybod, Ikybod, Ikybod! Oh, for the days that were gayer,
No GLADSTONE, no ROSEBERY, no HARCOURT!!! Wy, next we shall have no Lord Mayor!
[Left lamenting.
VERY CRUEL.—Mrs. R. was very much annoyed at something she said having been misreported by a friend. “I can’t trust him,” said the excellent Lady; “he twists and gargles everything I say.”
OFTEN TALKED ABOUT BUT NEVER SEEN.—“A Clean Sweep.”
