That ev'wy thing that's bwight must fade, we know is vewy twue,
And now we see what sublunawy glowwy must come to;
How twue was MAIDSTONE'S pwophecy; the Deluge we behold
Now that HAW MAJESTY'S Theataw is in cawse of being sold.
THE MAD CABMAN'S SONG OF SIXPENCE
[Footnote: This inimitable burlesque was published soon after the cab
fare had reduced from eightpence to sixpence a mile.]
PUNCH.
Wot's this?—wot hever is this 'ere?
Eh?—arf a suvrin!—feels like vun—
Boohoo! they won't let me have no beer!
Suppose I chucks it up into the sun!—
No—that ain't right—
The yaller's turned wite!
Ha, ha, ho!—he's sold and done—
Come, I say!—I won't stand that—
'Tis all my eye and BETTY MARTIN!
Over the left and all round my hat,
As the pewter pot said to the kevarten.
Who am I? HEMPRER of the FRENCH
LEWIS NAPOLEON BONYPART,
Old Spooney, to be sure—
Between you and me and the old blind oss
And the doctor says there ain't no cure.
D' ye think I care for the blessed Bench?—
From Temple Bar to Charing Cross?
Two mile and better—arf a crown—
Talk of screwing a feller down!
As for poor BILL, it's broke his art.
Cab to the Moon, sir? Here you are!—
That's—how much?—
A farthin' touch!
Now as we can't demand back fare.
But, guv'ner, wot can this 'ere be?—
The fare of a himperial carridge?
You don't mean all this 'ere for me!
In course you ain't heerd about my marridge—
I feels so precious keveer!
How was it I got that kick o' the 'ed?
I've ad a slight hindisposition
But a Beak ain't no Physician.
Wot's this 'ere, sir? wot's this 'ere?
You call yerself a gentleman? yer Snob!
He wasn't bled:
And I was let in for forty bob,
Or a month, instead:
And I caught the lumbago in the brain—
I've been confined—
But never you mind—
Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! I ain't hinsane.
Vot his this 'ere? Can't no one tell?
It sets my ed a spinnin—
The QUEEN'S eye winks—it ain't no sell—
The QUEEN'S 'ed keeps a grinnin:
Ha, ha! 't was guv
By the cove I druv—
I vunders for wot e meant it!
For e sez to me,
E sez, sez e,
As I ort to be contented!
Wot did yer say, sir, wot did yer say?
My fare!—wot, that!
Yer knocks me flat.
Hit in the vind!—I'm chokin—give us air—
My fare? Ha, ha! My fare? Ho, ho! My fare?
Call that my fare for drivin yer a mile?
I ain't hinsane—not yet—not yet avile!
Wot makes yer smile?
My blood is bilin' in a wiolent manner!
Wot's this I've got?
Show us a light—
This 'ere is—wot?—
There's sunthin the matter with my sight—
It is—yes!—No!—
'Tis, raly, though—
Oh, blow! blow! blow!—
Ho, ho, ho, ho! it is, it is a Tanner!
ALARMING PROSPECT
PUNCH.
To the Editor of "PUNCH."
SIR—You are aware, of course, that in the progress of a few centuries the language of a country undergoes a great alteration; that the Latin of the Augustan age was very different from that of the time of Tarquin; and no less so from that which prevailed at the fall of the Roman empire. Also, that the Queen's English is not precisely what it was in Elizabeth's days; to say nothing of its variation from what was its condition under the Plantagenets.