OUT-RIDERS TO THE QUEEN.
I'll have an excursion, a bit of desertion, September diversion, and where shall I go? If pleasure you mean, sir, at Windsor's the Queen, sir, I'd have you go in, sir, and see all the show.—At once, gay of heart, then for Windsor I start, and at Paddington see me in train to depart; and as steam's all the go, as you very well know, if we go slow to Windsor, we'll go quick to Slough.—The engine's a great 'un (at desperate rate on, 'twill speed us nor heed us, while we laugh and scoff), all happy go merry, like gunpowder, werry, as soon as it's fired the train will go off!—How rapid our pace is! I swear all the places, like horses at races, do seem to fly by! Oh! how precious quick now, and see if you're sick now, there's Ealing to cure you, so physic's my eye! See old Mr. Zitters, who dotes upon bitters, and, in the West Indies, put wormwood in shrubs: behold him alight now, to get appetite now (still bitters for ever!) at famed Wormwood Scrubs.—Here's Hanwell, where Smilem now weeps in th' Asylum; through moonshine and credit his trade cut its stick; woe followed his laughter, his wits they went after; a lunatic victim to Luna and tick!—Well now we're at Slough, and no farther need go, our raillery's over, the train has cried "wo!"—But the "bus," out and in, stows away thick and thin; dirt and clean, fat and lean, there for Windsor they pack; the sorry nags speed, very sorry indeed, with a whip at the flank and a load at the back.—Now all in a bustle, we rush to the Castle, and here comes the Queen ever smiling and gay, Hurrah! and God save her! she could not look braver; but those jockies in livery, pray who are they?—Oh! keep back your sneers, and hold in your jeers, they're her Majesty's ministers, princes, and peers. With their dingy blue jackets, and collars of red, their old Windsor uniforms, looking so dead; they might well pass for "Uniform Postmen" instead!—Now farewell and adieu to the Queen's retinue: for onward we strode, in the Royal abode, where fine ancient paintings, paraded to view, are shown by an ignorant thick-headed dunce, whose brogue murders Masters and English at once.—"Look, here is, an' plase ye, Paul-very-unaisy, and bad luck if there an't a rale Remembrant:" so if Dan did but follow the old fellow's tail, he'd be quite pleased to hear him call Raphael "Rapale!"—But it's going to rain, and although, to a man, we would have the Queen's reign be as long as it can; yet as soaking's "no go," we must rush back to Slough, where panting and gasping for breath we are dinn'd, sir—with "What is the matter? you're quite out of Wind-sir."
SEPTEMBER—Over-boarded and Under-lodged.