A don't object at all to War
With a set a fellas like the Fwench,
But this dem wupcha with the Czar,
It gives one's feeling quite a wench.
The man that peace in Yawwup kept
Gives all his pwevious life the lie;
A fina fella neva stepped,
Bai JOVE, he's maw than six feet high!
He cwushed those democwatic beasts;
He'd flog a Nun; maltweat a Jew,
Or pawsecute those Womish Pwiests,
Most likely vewy pwoppa too.
To think that afta such a cawce,
Which nobody could eva blame,
The EMP'WA should employ bwute fawce
Against this countwy just the same!
We all consida'd him our fwiend,
But in a most erwoneus light,
In shawt, it seems you can't depend
On one who fancies might is wight.
His carwacta is coming out;
His motives—which A neva saw—
Are now wevealed beyond a doubt,
And we must fight—but what a baw!
THE LAST KICK OF FOP'S ALLEY.
PUNCH.
Air—"Weber's Last Waltz."
My wawst feaws are wealized; the Op wa is na maw,
And the wain of DONIZETTI and TAPISCHOWE are aw!
No entapwising capitalist bidding faw the lot,
In detail at last the pwopaty is being sold by SCOTT.
Fahwell to Anna Bolena; to Nauma, oh, fahwell!
Adieu to La Sonnambula! the hamma wings haw knell;
I Puwitani, too, must cease a cwowded house to dwaw,
And they've knocked down lovely Lucia, the Bwide of Lammamaw.
Fahwell the many twinkling steps; fahwell the gwaceful fawm
That bounded o'er the wose-beds, and that twipped amid the stawm;
Fahwell the gauze and muslin—doomed to load the Hebwew's bags;
Faw the Times assauts the wawdwobe went—just fancy—as old wags!