TO TORY HEARTS,

To Tory hearts a round, boys,
You can't refuse, you can't refuse,
When Lib'rals so abound, boys,

'Tis time to choose, 'tis time to choose,

For thick as stars that lighten,

Our London stage, our London stage Are Whigs that fain would brighten The present age, the present age.

To Tories fill, where'er boys, Your choice may fall, your choice may fa Be sure you'll find truth there, boys, So drink them all, so drink them all.

Spirit of the Age Newspaper for 1828

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DEVILLED BISCUIT

("A Temple to Friendship.")

"A NICE Devill'd Biscuit" said JENKINS enchanted,
"I'll have after dinner-the thought is divine! "
The biscuit was bought, and he now only wanted-
To fully enjoy it—a glass of good wine.

He flew to the pepper, and sat down before it,
And at peppering the well-butter'd biscuit he went
Then, some cheese in a paste mix'd with mustard
spread o'er it,

And down to be grill'd to the kitchen 'twas sent.

"Oh! how," said the Cook, "can I this think o grilling,

When common the pepper? the whole will be flat.
But here's the Cayenne; if my master is willing,

I'll make, if he pleases, a devil with that."

So the Footman ran up with the Cook's observation

To JENKINS, who gave him a terrible look:

Oh, go to the devil!" forgetting his station,

Was the answer that JENKINS sent down to the Cook. Punch.

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Punch.

Cut and come again,

The syrup upward springing! While my life and taste remain, To thee my heart is clinging. Other dainties fade

The newest oft the fleetest ; But of all the pies now made, The Apple's still the sweetest. Who absurdly buys

Fruit not worth the baking? Who wastes crust on pies

That do not pay for making? Better far to be

An Apple Tartlet buying, Than to make one at home, and see On it there's no relying : That all must be weigh'd, When thyself thou treatest Still a pie home-made

Is, after all, the sweetest.

Who a pie would make,
First his apple slices;
Then he ought to take

Some cloves-the best of spices: Grate some lemon rind,

Butter add discreetly;

Then some sugar mix-but mind
The pie's not made too sweetly,
Every pie that's made

With sugar, is completest;
But moderation should pervade -
Too sweet is not the sweetest.

Who would tone impart,

Must-if my word is trustedAdd to his pie or tart

A glass of port-old crusted

If a man of taste,

He, complete to make it In the very finest paste

Will inclose and bake it. Pies have each their grade;

But, when this thou eatest Of all that e'er were made.

You'll say 'tis best and sweetest.

APPLE PIE.

("All that's bright must fade.")

ALL new dishes fade

The newest oft the fleetest

Of all the pies now made,

The Apple's still the sweetest;

THESE CHRISTMAS BILLS.

(A commercial melody 1826).

THESE Christmas bills, these Christmas bills How many a thought their number kills,

Of notes and cash, and that sweet time
When oft I heard my sovereigns chime.

Those golden days are past away,
And many a bill I used to pay
Sticks on the file, and empty tills
Contain no cash for Christmas bills.

And so 'twill be-though these are paid,
More Christmas bills will still be made,
And other men will fear these ills,
And curse the name of Christmas bills.
From Hone's Every Day Book.

ON REVISITING COLLEGE,
THAT chapel bell-that chapel bell!
Ah, once I knew its music well-
It tells of youth-of wasted time-
Of folly, happiness, and crime.

But now those joyous days are gone,
Yet still its peal is ringing on—
While others wish its tongue in hell,
And daily curse that chapel bell!

The Gownsman, (Cambridge), February 18, 1830,

THE FATAL MOUSTACHE.

The Duke of Cumberland had grossly insulted some ladies in the public high road near Barnes. He attempted to deny his identity, but was recognised by his white moustache.

My white moustache, my white moustache,
You speak the truth, however harsh,
Of Barnes and Kew, and of the time
When I rode past with air sublime.

The curs'd excrescence does away
With every lie that Q― may say ;
And oh, its ghastly whiteness tells
The truth to the insulted belles.

And so they knew when I had gone
The moustache that my lips had on.
"No other pair so whitely swells

We know them," say the Chiswick belles.
Figaro in London, October 6, 1832.

Moore, himself, wrote a parody on this subject, in imitation of the old song:

"A Master I have, and I am his man,
Galloping dreary dun."

THE Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,
Galloping, dreary Duke;

The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,
He's an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass,

With his charger prancing,

Grim eye glancing,
Chin, like a Mufti,
Grizzled and tufty,

Galloping, dreary Duke.

Ye misses, beware of the neighbourhood
Of this galloping, dreary Duke;

FLY NOT YET.

FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour,

When place-like a black midnight flower,
Which scorns the rude and vulgar light,
Begins to woo us sons of night,

And scamps who covet cash.

'Twas but to bless us sons of shade,
That place and pay were ever made.
'Tis then their rich attractions glowing,
From the public purse are flowing.
Oh stay! oh stay.

The Whigs are at a discount now,
And while they are, indeed I vow
For you to leave is rash.

Grand Chorus. The Whigs are at a discount now,
And while they are, indeed I vow
For you to leave is rash.

Figaro in London, September 28, 1833.

(The Duke of Cumberland was the least popular of all the sons of George III. His manners were rude, overbearing, and sometimes even brutal, and he was profligate, selfish, and quarrelsome. On the accession of Queen Victoria, the throne of Hanover passed to him in virtue of the Salic law, and the greatest public satisfaction was felt on his departure for his new kingdom, where his breaches of faith, and tyrannical conduct, soon led to commotions which had to be quelled by severe military measures. He died in 1851).

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THOSE London belles, those London belles,
Ah! what a tale their beauty tells,
Of suff'ring beaux and wounded hearts,
The dire effect of Cupid's darts.

Perhaps that maid, with eyes of blue,
Has often made a sad to do;

And many a heart with anguish swells,
While thinking of the London belles.

Ah! yes, how sweet it is to me.
To take a social cup of tea,

And while the heart in comfort dwells,
To hear the chat of London belles.

For then they scan their dress,-the play,
Though woe to those who are away,
For Scandal often leaves her cells,
To join the chat of London belles.

Ev'n Jove peeps down, with looks of love,
And Juno, jealous, frowns above,
To see young Beauty gladly dwells,
To deck the charms of London belles.

And so 'twill be in other times,

Fond hearts will sing in softer rhymes, And cloud the praise this ditty swells While ages grace the London belles.

MISS BRYANT.

THOSE BALL-ROOM BELLES.

THOSE ball-room belles! those ball-room belles !

How many a tale their memory tells

Of polka, waltz and galopade,
Of D'Albert, Linter, and Musard.

"The season" now has pass'd away,
And many

a man" that then was gay

Now climbs the alps or Scotia's fells,
And whirls no more those ball-room belles.

And so 'twill be when next they meet,
In Belgrave-square and Berkeley-street;
The waltz shall rouse embroider'd "swells"
To deux-temps with those ball-room belles.
Diogenes. August, 1853.

THOSE TRAMWAY BELLS.

THOSE tramway bells, those tramway bells,
How many a joy their discord quells;
My temper, thoughts, and this sweet rhyme
They knock completely out of time.

Those fearful sounds ne'er pass away,
But mar with discord night and day;
And tin-tin-nabulation swells
To horror in those tramway bells.

The railway bell has bulk of tone,
The muffin-sweetness of its own;
But frenzy in this tinkling dwells-
Like Mr. Irving's in "The Bells."
Not thus 'twill be when steam has come,
For then this clangour will be dumb;
Whilst other force the car propels,
We'll hear no more those tramway bells.

Funny Folks.

THOSE SCOTCH HOTELS.

THOSE Scotch hotels! Those Scotch hotels
Each tourist of their robberies tells:
My pocket to its bottom thrills,
When I reflect upon their bills.

Some pleasant hours soon pass'd away,
But when I learned what was to pay,
I wish'd the devil had those swells-
The landlords of the Scotch hotels.

And so 'twill be when I am gone,
The greedy race will still rob on;
And other tourists through these dells
Shall rail upon the Scotch Hotels.

Diogenes, September, 1853.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

THOSE Evening Bells, those Evening Bells,
How many a tale their music tells.
Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime.
And letters only just in time !-

The Muffin-boy has pass'd away,
The Postman gone-and I must pay,
For down below Deaf Mary dwells,
And does not hear those Evening Bells.

And so 'twill be when she is gone,
The tuneful peal will still ring on,
And other maids with timely yells
Forget to stay those Evening Bells.

Tom Hood.

THOSE GRESHAM CHIMES.

THOSE Gresham chimes, those Gresham chimes!
They take us back to Tudor times,
When Merchant Princes felt no shame

To bear a civic magnate's name.

That name has sunk below disdain,

No GRESHAM dons the civic chain,

A Merchant Prince as soon would wear

The garb of Beadle as of Mayor.

But Mayors, and such, will soon be gone,

A new régime is coming on;

We'll hope to hear, in better times,

Some Gresham hailed by Gresham chimes.

Punch, December, 1853.

(A new set of Chimes had just been fixed in the tower of the Royal Exchange, London.)

LONDON BELLS.

THOSE London Bells, those London Bells,
How plain a tale that nuisance tells,
Of fees and beer, that buy the time

Of those who raise that senseless chime

Those foolish times are passed away
When people liked the belfry's bray,
With Lord Mayor's Shows and Thames's smells
We class those pestering London Bells,

Were wringers' swipes and swindle gone,
That vulgar noise would not go on.
The fact from every steeple knells

That Pewter Pots are London Bells.

SHIRLEY BROOKS. November 1855.

THOSE PRETTY GIRLS.

THOSE pretty girls, those pretty girls,
How many a glance their bright eye whirls,
Of love, and hope, and that fond ray
That lures us on from day to day.

How many a spirit that was bright,
When first he looked on beauty's light,
Walks sorrowing where the cascade purls,
And sees no more those pretty girls.

Thus, too, when silence quells my lyre,

Will beauty's eyes still flash with fire,
And other poets twine your curls,
And sing your praises, pretty girls.

J. W. W.

Strange qualms within me darkly dwell
Whene'er I hear the Muffin-Bell.

And yet soft memories of old times
Linger about the jangling chimes,
And, like DE RUTZEN, I'd be tender
To the too noisy Muffin Vendor.
But oh methinks when I am gone
That tuneless peal will not ring on;
For Man, with street-law ordered well,
Will hear no more the Muffin-Bell!

THOSE VATTED RUMS.

THOSE Vatted Rums, those Vatted Rums!

How very cheap a quartern comes,

When of that liquor pure and prime,

You take two gallons at a time.

The fumes will quickly pass away,
And many an evening will be gay-
While nothing like a headache comes,
Through drinking these delicious Rums.

And so 'twill be, when I am gone;
Those Vatted Rums will still sell on,
And other fingers, pens, and thumbs
Will sing your praise-ye Vatted Rums.

Punch. August 25, 1855.

THOSE EVENING BELLES.

THOSE evening belles, those evening belles
How much of faded youth it tells
That red red rouge thick painted on,
Of waning charms, of beauties gone.

Soon e'en red rouge will pass away,
And sunken cheek and mind's decay
Will dull those eyes where sparkle dwells,
Leave old and grim those evening belles.

Yet then, as now, when they are gone
Some red rouged belles will still laugh on,
And yawning o'er them other "swells,"
Discourse their charms, rouged evening belles.
From Pan, the Pilgrim. (Weldon & Co., London).

THAT MUFFIN BELL.

THAT Muffin-Bell! That Muffin-Bell!

How many a tale its tinklings tell.

Of youth, and hope, and that glad time
When my digestion yet was prime !

The bilious discs I then could eat,

The bell's wild whangling down the street Was one of boyhood's special joys:

I never, never thought it noise.

How joyously at even rang
The tintinnabulary clang !

The gawping jaw, the raucous yell,

I loved them, loved them passing well

Those happy hours are passed away.
Age must not with its peptics play.

Punch, December 18, 1880.

THE PARCEL POST.

THE Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!
To Fawcett pledge the joyous toast-
May no ill fortune e'er restrain
This glorious bantling of his brain.

Deliv'ry companies no more

Delay and "cheek "—their day is o'er ;
What now has laid the Carrier's ghost ?—
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!

When Christmas comes with jovial fare,
Of turkeys, geese, and viands rare,
What then shall be my hope and boast ?—
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!

The postman, staggering 'neath the weight
Of welcome presents, opes my gate;
'Tis then I prize and honour most
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!

Judy, August 3 1883.

SONG BY THE MARQUIS OF LONDONDERRY.

OFT o'er my tea and toast,

When I a speech have sported,

I take the Morning Post,

To see how its reported.
The frequent "hears,'
"Continued cheers,'

The witty things ne'er spoken,
The "oh's" left out,

And nought about

The coughs with which t'was broken.

When I behold it all

In columns neat and taper,
Precisely made to fall

By Brougham's in the paper -
I feel like one,

Who's really done

A thing too bright to sully,
And dream with head
As thick as lead,

That I'm the modern Tully.

Figaro in Londo", March 31, 1832.

THE SILLY SEASON,

[By a Used-up Journalist.]

OFT, on a "silly" night,
When lack of news has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me :
Physicians' fees,

The Channel seas,

Words "out of Season" spoken; Ill-treated Clerks,

The Public Parks,

And nerves by railways broken.

Oft on a silly plight,

When printers' devils hound me, Kind memory brings the light Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The themes, so mix'd together,
Which regularly call,

Like duns in autumn weather,
I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some prison mill deserted :
Each topic dead,

Each interest fled,

And all but me departed.

Thus, when a silly" night

Completely" stumped" has found me, Kind Memory flings the light

Of brighter days around me.

Funny Folks. October 5, 1878.

Air." Oft in the Stilly Night."

W. E. G. sings :

Oft in Election's fight,

Ere" Home Rule's" chains had bound me, Mem'ry brings before my sight

Companions then around me ;

The rows, the sneers,

The poll-booth jeers,

The slanging words then spoken ;
The eyes that shone

How blacked! and bone

How smashed! and heads how broken! Thus in election's fight, &c.