Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack,
But that again don't mention:
I guess that COLTS' revolvers whack
Their very first invention.
By YANKEE DOODLE, too, you're beat
Downright in Agriculture,
With his machine for reaping wheat,
Chaw'd up as by a vulture.
CHORUS.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.
You also fancied, in your pride,
Which truly is tarnation,
Them British locks of yourn defied
The rogues of all creation;
But CHUBBS' and BRAMAH'S HOBBS has pick'd,
And you must now be view'd all
As having been completely licked
By glorious YANKEE DOODLE.
CHORUS.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.
LINES FOR MUSIC. PUNCH.
Come strike me the harp with its soul-stirring twang,
The drum shall reply with its hollowest bang;
Up, up in the air with the light tamborine,
And let the dull ophecleide's groan intervene;
For such is our life, lads, a chaos of sounds,
Through which the gay traveler actively bounds.
With the voice of the public the statesman must chime,
And change the key-note, boys, exactly in time;
The lawyer will coolly his client survey,
As an instrument merely whereon he can play.
Then harp, drum, and cymbals together shall clang,
With a loud-tooral lira, right tooral, bang, bang!
DRAMA FOR EVERY-DAY LIFE. LUDGATE HILL.—A MYSTERY. PUNCH.
MR. MEADOWS . . . . A Country Gentleman.
PRIGWELL . . . . . With a heavy heart and light fingers.
BROWN . . . . . . . Friends of each other.
JONES . . . . . . . Friends of each other.
BLIND VOCALIST . . Who will attempt the song of "Hey
the Bonny Breast Knot."
The Scene represents Ludgate Hill in the middle of the day;
Passengers, Omnibuses, etc., etc., passing to and fro.
MEADOWS enters, musing.