網頁圖片
PDF
ePub 版

They say there is an ancient House,
As pure as it is old,
Where Members always speak their minds,
And votes are never sold.
I'm fond of all antiquities,
But how shall I get there?
“ Straight down the Crooked Lane, ..
And all round the Square.”

They say there is a Royal Court
Maintain’d in noble state,
Where every able man, and good,
Is certain to be great!
I'm very fond of seeing sights,
But how shall I get there?
“ Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”

They say there is a Temple too,
Where Christians come to pray;
But canting knaves and hypocrites,
And bigots keep away.
O! that's the parish church for me!
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”

They say there is a Garden fair, . .
That's haunted by the dove,
Where love of gold doth ne'er eclipse
The golden light of love-

The place must be a Paradise,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”

I've heard there is a famous Land
For public spirit known-
Whose Patriots love its interests
Much better than their own.
The Land of Promise sure it is !
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”

I've read about a fine Estate,
A Mansion large and strong;
A view all over Kent and back,
And going for a song.
George Robins knows the very spot,
But how shall I get there?
“ Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”

I've heard there is a Company
All formal and enroll’d,
Will take your smallest silver coin
And give it back in gold.
Of course the office door is mobb’d,
But how shall I get there?
“ Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”

I've heard about a pleasant Land, Where omelettes grow on trees, And roasted pigs run crying out, “ Come eat me, if you please.” My appetite is rather keen, But how shall I get there? “Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square.”

A TABLE OF ERRATA.

(Hostess loquitur.)

WELL! thanks be to Heaven,
The summons is given;
It's only gone seven

And should have been six ;
There's fine overdoing
In roasting and stewing,
And victuals past chewing

To rags and to sticks !

How dreadfully chilly!
I shake, willy-nilly;
That John is so silly

And never will learn
This plate is a cold one,
That cloth is an old one,
I wish they had told one

The lamp wouldn't burn.

Now then for some blunder,
For nerves to sink under:
I never shall wonder

Whatever goes ill.

That fish is a riddle !
It's broke in the middle.
A Turbot ! a fiddle !

It's only a Brill !

It's quite over-boild too,
The butter is oild too,
The soup is all spoil'd too,

It's nothing but slop.
The smelts looking flabby,
The soles are as dabby,
It all is so shabby

That Cook shall not stop !

As sure as the morning,
She gets a month’s warning,
My orders for scorning-

There's nothing to eat!
I hear such a rushing,
I feel such a flushing,
I know I am blushing

As red as a beet!

Friends flatter and flatter,
I wish they would chatter;
What can be the matter

That nothing comes next?
How very unpleasant !
Lord! there is the pheasant!
Not wanted at present,

I’m born to be vext!

« 上一頁繼續 »