THE DARBY DAY.

Come, Bet, my pet, and Sal, my pal, a buss, and then farewell—

And Ned, the primest ruffling cove that ever nail'd a swell—

To share the swag, or chaff the gab, we'll never meet again,

The hulks is now my bowsing crib, the hold my dossing ken.

Don't nab the bib, my Bet, this chance must happen soon or later,

For certain sure it is that transportation comes by natur;

His lordship's self, upon the bench, so downie his white wig in,

Might sail with me, if friends had he to bring him up to priggin;

And is it not unkimmon fly in them as rules the nation,

To make us end, with Botany, our public edication?

But Sal, so kind, be sure you mind the beaks don't catch you tripping,

You'll find it hard to be for shopping sent on board the shipping:

So tip your mauns afore we parts, don't blear your eyes and nose,

Another grip, my jolly hearts—here's luck, and off we goes!

SETTLING FOR THE HOAX.

3 Low Sunday. "Facile est descensus—"

8 Sir R. Peel resigned, 1835.

To all the virtues of exalted station,

He adds the greater one of resignation.

15 Clock with Sun.

Caution.—Never undertake to get a lady's watch repaired, or you will be held responsible for its defects ever after.

24 Geological Society instituted, 1826.

Kind friends in need are they who make no bones,

When paupers ask for bread, to give them stones.

APRIL.——Low Sunday.

ODE TO SIR ANDREW AGNEW:
AND ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.

Sir Andrew Agnew, oh! thou scourge of sinners,

Thou legislator against vice

And nice

Hot Sunday dinners!

What shall we do

Now thou art gone—thou and Sir Oswald[[3]] too—

To make men fast and pray

Each seventh day?

Who now shall save us from sin's burning embers?

Now that we've lost our two old Marrowbone members?

But seriously, Sir Andrew, do you think

There's so much harm in meat and drink?

That a hot steak

Ate once a week

Shows a depraved state of society?

That frizzled bacon

Argues a soul mistaken?

And—pray don't start!—

That devil'd kidneys show a dev'lish heart?

That there is irreligion in hot fry?

And that cold pie alone is pie-ty?

If so, begin, Sir, with the rich: ask these

To give up their ragouts, and stews, and fricassees.

I guess they'd think your application rather strange;

But if you will work out your Bill,

Believe me, you must take a wider kitchen range.

Then, Sir, you think it wrong

In 'bus or cab to ride along

The streets,

Intent on rural treats

At Hampstead, Islington, or Turnham Green;

But have you never seen

The crowd

Of knights and dames, on palfreys fierce and proud,

That fill

Hyde Park o' Sundays? I don't wish to tease,

But, Sir, for riders such as these,

There ought, I think, to be a rider to your Bill.

No doubt it's very wrong, and shows but little nous,

To go a tea-drinking, and making merry

At th' Eagle, Rosemary Branch, or Yorkshire Stingo;—

Chalk Farm's as vile, by jingo!

There's something very black about White Conduit House.

Richmond is sad;

And Twickenham's as bad:

And Hampton Wick is very wicked—very.

But, Sir,—excuse the freedom of my pen—

D'ye think that they

Who spend the day

At Tattersall's, in laying wagers

On Derbys, Oaks, and Legers,

Are better men?

And then, the Clubs!—where gambling of all kinds,

And vices such as daylight never saw,

Are carried on behind cast-metal blinds—

For these, Sir, can't you frame some new Club Law?

Then, Sir, I know

You vote rat-killing low;

And wouldn't sit

For worlds in the Westminster Pit.

And so no doubt it is—extremely shocking;

But so is cocking!

And I have known full many a noble lord

(I have, upon my word,)

Fight cocks upon this day:

So pray,

Before for us poor folks you legislate,

Just try to quell this main-ia in the great.

Then music drives you mad:

And, Scotchman tho' you be,

I know

You wouldn't suffer even a Scotch fiddle;

And, as for "down the middle,"

And such-like tricks of Dame Terpsichore,

I've often heard you say they're quite as bad:

And that all persons merit a sound whipping

Who are found tripping.

(Àpropos—

How you'd be shock'd in France,

To see, Sir, a whole country dance!)

Mind! I don't say but that all this is wrong:

But is it worse, Sir, than the Sunday song

Of Grisi, Albertazzi, Betts, Rubini,

Lablache, or Tamburini?

And would it not be better first to wipe out

This sin among the high and mighty of the State,

Before you put the poor man's pipe out?

For my part, I think Vivi tu

As wicked as All round my hat—don't you?

And really I don't know

How you can stop Jim Crow,

And let the rich

Carry their concerts, Sir, to such a concert pitch.

And, if, Sir, I may speak

My mind, your plan to gag our week

(Tho' done, perhaps, with very best intention)

Is but a weak invention.

Besides, Sir, here's a poser,—

At least to me it seems a closer,

And shows a shocking lack of legislative skill—

If nothing, Sir, 's to work from Saturdays to Mondays,

Pray how's your Bill

To work on Sundays?

[3]. Sir O. Moseley, who lost his election, they say, from having seconded Sir Andrews' Sunday Bill.

MAY,—"All a growing!"