DIVIDEND DAY AT THE BANK.

What a crowd! what a crush!

What a row! what a rush!

What screaming, and tearing, and noise,—

Of cabmen and footmen, policemen and bus-men,

And poor little run-over boys!

From Lombard-street, Prince's-street, Broad-street, King-William-street,

On they come driving full spank:

Old and young, great and small,

Fair and brown, short and tall;

For it's Dividend Day at the Bank.

Oh! it's Dividend Day!

And all sorts of queer incongruities:

Old men and young maids, deaf ears and bright eyes,

Are coming to claim their annuities.

All questions now cease—

Is it war? is it peace?

Who cares! Or for news of the Frank!

For Fleet or Conscription,

Turk, Russ, or Egyptian?—

It's Dividend Day at the Bank.

"Dear uncle," says Miss,

With a smile and a kiss,

"How rosy you're looking to-day!

Stay! stop! stand you still!

There's a fly on your frill!

Psh! there, now I've brush'd it away.

And here, look, dear nunks, is a beautiful purse:

There, take it—no words—hush—don't thank!"

And another great buss

Accomp'nies the "puss"—

(☞It's Dividend Day at the Bank.)

The merchant on 'Change

Thinks it looks rayther strange

That his wife should come out all that way—

From Kennington-common—

Such a very fat woman!

And such an "uncommon hot day!"

To meet her "dear duck,"

Her "love" and her "chuck:"

And then she's so hearty and frank,

Prates and chirps like a bird,—

But, of course, not a word

About Dividend Day at the Bank.

The Minister now,

With pre-occupied brow,

On some "secret service" is gone;

While loyal committee,

From borough or city

Is left in its glory alone.

"Yet he promised to be

Here exactly at three—

Only think! and a man of his rank;

And possessing such zeal

For the national weal!"—

But it's Dividend Day at the Bank.

Now summer suns glow,

And summer buds blow,

And summer birds gladden each hour;

While soft strains of love

Are heard from above,

And Beauty sits lone in her bow'r:

Sits lone in her bow'r,

And droops like the flow'r

That of rain or of dew hath not drank

To her lover she cries;

But no lover replies!—

It's Dividend Day at the Bank.

Oh! the poet may sing

Of the beauties of Spring,

In a hymn to the sweet first of May;

The hero attune,

To the eighteenth of June,

His glorious, uproarious lay;

To Saint Valentine's morn

Let lovers forlorn

Write verses, in rhyme or in blank;

I'll carol my lays

To the glory and praise

Of Dividend Day at the Bank.

I wish
you may
get it.
Polish Fate.