And strove and struggled all in vain, He totter'd, sunk, and died! Did none attempt, before he fell, Served but to share his grave! But sulphury stench and boiling drench He sunk to rise no more. Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved, THE REVIVAL. Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom, And toil rebuilds what fires consume! Eat we and drink we, be our ditty, Joy to the managing committee!" Eat we and drink we, join to rum Roast beef and pudding of the plum; Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come, With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, For this is Drury's gay day: Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops, And buy, to glad thy smiling chops, Crisp parliament with lollypops, And fingers of the Lady. Didst mark, how toil'd the busy train, And nimble workmen trod; With trowel and with hod. Drury revives! her rounded pate As magpie, crow, or chough; You might have deem'd her walls so thick Were not composed of stone or brick, But all a phantom, all a trick, Of brain disturb'd and fancy sick, So high she soars, so vast, so quick! The Marchioness, blooming in years, In the arms of Elizabeth Mugg? VII. When at court, or some Dowager's rout, Are shared with her favorite Pug; VIII. Could the stage be a large vis-à-vis, Reserved for the polished and great, Where each happy lover might see The nymph he adores tête-à-tête; No longer I'd gaze on the ground, And the load of despondency lug, For I'd book myself all the year round, To ride with the sweet Lady Mugg. IX. Yes, she in herself is a host, And if she were here all alone, Our house might nocturnally boast A bumper of fashion and ton. Again should it burst in a blaze, In vain would they ply Congreve's plug, For nought could extinguish the rays From the glance of divine Lady Mugg. X. Oh could I as Harlequin frisk, And thou be my Columbine fair, My wand should with one magic whisk Transport us to Hanover Square! St. George's should lend us its shrine, The parson his shoulders might shrug, But a license should force him to join My hand in the hand of my Mugg. XI. Court plaster the weapons should tip, By Cupid shot down from above, Which, cut into spots for thy lip, Should still barb the arrows of love. The God who from others flies quick, With us should be slow as a slug; As close as a leech he should stick To me and Elizabeth Mugg. XII. For Time would, with us, 'stead of sand, And spangle life's page as they pass. Each fire-nymph his kiss from her countenance shields, 'T would soon set her cheekbone a frying; He spit in the tenter-ground near Spital-fields, And the hole that it burnt, and the chalk that it yields, Make a capital limekiln for drying. When he open'd his mouth, out there issued a blast, (Nota bene, I do not mean swearing), But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast, I've heard it from those who have seen it, surpass'd A shot manufactory flaring. MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, commonly called Monk Lewis, from his once popular romance of that name. He blazed, and he blazed, as he gallop'd to snatch His bride, little dreaming of danger; His whip was a torch, and his spur was a match, And over the horse's left eye was a patch, To keep it from burning the manger. And who is the housemaid he means to enthral On his warming-pan knee-pan he clattering roll'd, And the housemaid his hand would have taken, But his hand, like his passion, was too hot to hold, And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold All melted, like butter or bacon! Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour, Oh! then she look'd sour, and indeed well she Workmen in olden times would mount a ladder might, For Vinegar Yard was before her; But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight, Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas-light, To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her. With hodded heads, but these stretched forth a pole From the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulley Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley; To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks Thus freighted, swung securely to the top, Look! look! 't is the Ale King, so stately and And in the empty basket workmen twain starch, Whose votaries scorn to be sober; He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch; Brown-stout is his doublet, he hops in his march, And froths at the mouth in October. His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung; He taps where the housemaid no more is, When lo! at his magical bidding upsprung A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young, And sported in loco sororis. Back, lurid in air, for a second regale, The Cinder King, hot with desire, To Brydges Street hied; but the Monarch of Ale, With uplifted spigot and faucet, and pail, Thus chided the Monarch of Fire: "Vile tyrant, beware of the ferment I brew; I rule the roast here, dash the wig o' me! If, spite of your marriage with Old Drury, you Come here with your tinderbox, courting the New, I'll have you indicted for bigamy!" PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS. BY S. T. C.* "Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim Credebat libris; neque si male cesserat, usquam Decurrens alio, neque si bene."-HOR. My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad? *S. T. COLERIDGE. Precipitate, unhurt accosted earth. I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane Much criticised; they say 'tis vulgar brick-work, A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth. One of the morning papers wish'd that front Cemented like the front in Brydges-Street; A handsome woman with a fish's tail. As it now looks, they call it Wyatt's Mermaid, White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet- The Albion (as its name denotes) is white: Fleet-Street, But not St. Bride's in She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa Cries, "There you go! this comes of playhouses!" To build no portico is penny wise : Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound. foolish! Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theatres! Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee push'd Back from the narrow street that christened thee, I know not why they call thee Drury Lane. Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions, It grieves me much to see live animals Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit, Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist Quite to the life. The elephant in Blue Beard, Stuff'd by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis, As spruce as he who roar'd in Padmanaba. Nought born on earth should die. On hackney stands I reverence the coachman who cries, "Gee," Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife [Exit hastily. DRURY LANE HUSTINGS. A NEW HALFPENNY BALLAD. BY A PIC-NIC POET. "This is the very age of promise: To promise is most courtly and fashionable. Performance is a kind of will or testament, which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it."-TIMON OF ATHENS, [To be sung by MR. JOHNSTONE, in the character of LOONEY M'TWOLTER.] I. MR. JACK, your address, says the Prompter to me, So I gave him my card-no, that aint it, says he; Tis your public address. Oh! says I, never fear, If address you are bother'd for, only look here. II. [Puts on hat affectedly. Let us cheer our great Commoner, but for whose Tol de rol lol, &c. With Drury's for sartin we'll never have done, We've built up another, and yet there's but one; The old one was best, yet I'd say, if I durst, The new one is better-the last is the first. Tol de rol, &c. aid We all should have gone with short commons to bed; And since he has saved all the fat from the fire, I move that the house be call'd Whitbread's Entire. Tol de rol, &c. ARCHITECTURAL ATOMS. TRANSLATED BY DR. B.* Lege, Dick, Lege!-JOSEPH ANDREWS. [To be recited by the Translator's Son.] AWAY, fond dupes! who, smit with sacred lore, I sing how casual bricks, in airy climb, elate, Kiss'd in their slope blue elemental slate, Clasp'd solid beams in chance-directed fury, And gave to birth our renovated Drury. Thee I invoke! Oh puff my bold design, Prompt the bright thought, and swell th' harmonious line; Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspire But, while I court thy gifts, be mine to shun sweep, Roar to the clouds and lash the rocking deep; Heaves the smote vessel in the howling blast, Till stript-nonsuited-he is doom'd to toss Eolian monarch! Emperor of Puffs! Fools are their bankers—a prolific line, If such thy power, O hear the Muse's prayer! Swell thy loud lungs and wave thy wings of air; Spread, viewless giant, all thy arms of mist I sing of ATOMS, whose creative brain, Self-form'd of atoms, sprang the infant world: Splits the stretch'd sail, and cracks the totter-Settling in spheres, the globe was the result: ing mast. Launch'd on a plank, the buoyant hero rides, Where ebon Afric stems the sable tides, While his duck'd comrades o'er the ocean fly, And sleep not in the whole skins they untie. So, when to raise the wind some lawyer tries, Mysterious skins of parchment meet our eyes; On speeds the smiling suit-" Pleas of our Lord The King" shine sable on the wide record; Nods the prunella'd bar, attorneys smile, And syren jurors flatter to beguile; DR. BUSBY. This gentleman gave living recitations of his translation of Lucretius, with tea and bread-andbutter. He sent in a real Address to the Drury-Lane Committee, which was really rejected. Pure child of Chance, which still directs the ball, As rotatory atoms rise or fall. In ether launch'd, the peopled bubble floats, Outstripping comets in eccentric race. |