"Lor, Pa, you'll soon be brown as brown, you're not so red to-day."
But wives can't flatter tints away, and when he leaves the place,
I'd guarantee to light my pipe at Pa's tomato face.
A front-row stall I quick secured, a green and gaudy bench,
And paid my humble penny to a very buxom wench.
The tide was running out amain, and slowly, bit by bit,
She moved her back seats forward till she left me in the pit.
Stout Mr. BIGGS, the hair-dresser, the Bond-Street mould of form,
Sat next me with his family, and seemed to find it warm;
And, while admiring Mrs. B. hung on her BIGGS's lips.