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And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us
all and, drat him, made a seize of our hog.It's no use to send the Cryer to cry him about,
he's such a blunderin' drunken old dog ; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child,
he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a
distracted Mother and Father about Town. Billy — where are you, Billy, I say? come Billy,
come home, to your best of Mothers! .. I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they
drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters
and Brothers. Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping
wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what
not, And be poked up behind with a picked pointed
pole, when the soot has ketched, and the chim
bly 's red hot. Oh I'd give the whole wide world, if the world
was mine,.to clap my two longin' eyes on his
face. For he's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't
soon come back, you'll see me drop stone
dead on the place. I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Moth
erly arms, and wouldn't I hug him and kiss
him! Lawk! I never knew what a precious he was —
but a child don't not feel like a child till you
Why there he is ! Punch and Judy hunting, the
young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as
sin ! But let me get him home, with a good grip of his
hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a whole
bone in his skin!
“ Give me old music - let me hear
The songs of days gone by!” – H. F. CHORLEY.
O! COME, all ye who love to hear
An ancient song in ancient taste,
To whom all bygone Music 's dear
As verdant spots in Memory's waste !
Its name “ The Ancient Concert” wrongs,
And has not hit the proper clef,
To wit, Old Folks, to sing Old Songs,
To Old Subscribers rather deaf.
Away, then, Hawes ! with all your band.
Ye beardless boys, this room desert !
One youthful voice, or youthful hand,
Our concert-pitch would disconcert !
No Bird must join our “ vocal throng,”
The present age beheld at font:
Away, then, all ye “Sons of Song,"
Your Fathers are the men we want !
Away, Miss Birch, you ’re in your prime!
Miss Romer, seek some other door!
Go, Mrs. Shaw! till, counting time,
You count you 're nearly fifty-four!
Go, Miss Novello, sadly young !
Go, thou composing Chevalier,
And roam the county towns among,
No Newcome will be welcome here !
Our Concert aims to give at night
The music that has had its day!
So, Rooke, for us you cannot write
Till time has made you Raven gray.
Your score may charm a modern ear,
Nay, ours, when three or fourscore old,
But in this Ancient atmosphere,
Fresh airs like yours would give us cold !
Go, Hawes, and Cawse, and Woodyat, go!
Hence, Shirreff, with those native curls
And Master Coward ought to know
This is no place for boys and girls !
No Massons here we wish to see ;
Nor is it Mrs. Seguin's sphere,
Aoi vs B—: OA: Is B5
Sach Bishops are not rererend here!
West! Grisi, bright and beaming thus!
To sing the songs gone gray with super!
No, Grisi, no. — but come to us
And welcome, when you leare the stage:
Ok, Iranhoit: - till weak and harsh:-
Rubini, hence with all the clan!
But come, Lablache, years hence, Lablache
A little shrivelled thin old man.
Go, Ur. Phillips, where you please!
Away, Tom Cooke, and all your bateh ;
You'd run us out of breath with Glees,
And Catches that we could not catch.
Away, ye Leaders all, who lead
With violins, quite modern things;
To guide our Ancient band we need
Old fiddles out of leading strings !
But 'come, ye Songsters, overripe,
That into “childish trebles break ! "
And bring, Miss Winter, bring the pipe
That cannot sing without a shake!
Nay, come, ye Spinsters all, that spin
A slender thread of ancient voice,
Old notes that almost seem called in ;
At such as you we shall rejoice!
No thund'ring Thalbergs here shall baulk,
Or ride your pet D-cadence o'er,
But fingers with a little chalk
Shall, moderato, keep the score !
No Broadwoods here so full of tone,
But Harpsichords assist the strain :
No Lincoln's pipes, we have our own
Bird-Organ, built by Tubal-Cain.
And welcome! St. Cecilians, now
Ye willy-nilly, ex-good fellows,
Who will strike up, no matter how,
With organs that survive their bellows !
And bring, O bring, your ancient styles
In which our elders loved to roam,
Those flourishes that strayed for miles,
Till some good fiddle led them home!
O come, ye ancient London Cries,
When Christmas Carols erst were sung !
Come, Nurse, who droned the lullabies,
“ When Music, heavenly Maid, was young!”
No matter how the critics treat,
What modern sins and faults detect,
The Copy-Book shall still repeat,
These Concerts must “ Command respect !”