A coloured bishop, just arrived in town from Timbuctoo,
Who wanted Shoreditch Church, they took and left him at the Zoo.
He walked about and round and round the wilds of Regent’s Park,
And in the Inner Circle strayed, and lost himself at dark.
In vain he looked for Shoreditch Church, he wandered round and round
Until from rage and giddiness he tumbled on the ground;
And when he heard the lions roar he funked, was taken “wuss,”
And loss his wits; and now he’s mad, all through that pirate ’bus.
Young Mr. Lawson heard the tale and went about the town,
And found fresh victims here and there, all scattered up and down.
He found a gray-haired gentleman, who left his home at Bow,
As near as he could recollect, a dozen years ago,
But who, through pirates on the road, had travelled here and there,
And paid his income all away to meet the pirate fare,
But could not get to Bow again. Said Lawson, “Is it thus?
Then I’ll away to Parliament and board the pirate ’bus.”
No more above the driver’s seat the black flag sweeps the seas,
No more the skull and bones across flaunts out upon the breeze;
The buccaneering ’bus is bust, conductor Kidd is done,
Paul Jones the driver’s game is up, his pirate race is run.
And o’er the parlour fire at home the country folks to-day
Tell wondering babes of those old days when they were borne away
To desert isle and lonely spot, and yielded watch and “puss,”
To pay the ransom and escape the roving pirate ’bus.
The War-Cry.
O, it’s down with the German sausage,
Away with the German yeast,
And never shall Turkey rhubarb
Come after an English feast.
O, it’s death to the onion Spanish,
And death to the Brussels sprout,
And we’ll scatter the Persian sherbet
In the general foreign rout.
Let plaster of Paris vanish,
And down with the old Dutch clock;
No ship of old England’s commerce
Shall strike on French almond rock
A fig for the choice Havanna,
And down with the black Japan,
And never a Turkish towel
Shall dry a true Englishman.
No more shall the Roman candle
At the Palace of Crystal rise,
And the famed Italian iron
Shall the laundry-maid despise.
No more shall the Russian leather
Envelop an English book;
No more shall a French bean simmer
’Neath the eyes of an English cook.
’Tis the cry of the bankrupt trader
That floats upon every breeze;
French rolls they have “bust” the baker,
And the cheesemonger hates Dutch cheese.
O, buy but the goods of Britain,
By the hands of the natives made,
And if they should charge you double,
All the better for English trade.
The “Lancet.”
KNEW some jolly people, all as happy as could be,
Always eager for their dinner, always ready for their tea;
Cheeks had they for ever rosy, eyes that glistened and were bright—
They could eat a hearty supper and sleep calmly through the night.
They had neither pain nor aching, and, as none of them were ill,
They had never taken physic and they paid no doctor’s bill.
O, in all the British islands none were healthier, I ween,
Or more happy and contented than the Browns of Walham Green.