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They say while we have any sun
We ought to make our hay -
And India has so hot an one,
I'm going to Bombay!

v. My cousin writes from Hyderapot My only chance to snatch, And says the climate is so hot, It's sure to light a match,— She's married to a son of Mars, With very handsome pay, And swears I ought to thank my stars I'm going to Bombay!

VI.

She says that I shall much delight
To taste their Indian treats,
But what she likes may turn me quite,
Their strange outlandish meats. —
If I can eat rupees, who knows?
Or dine, the Indian way,
On doolies and on bungalows —
I'm going to Bombay!

VII.

She says that I shall much enjoy,
I don't know what she means, —
To take the air and buy some toy,

In my own palankeens, —
I like to drive my pony-chair,
Or ride our dapple gray —
But elephants are horses there –
I'm going to Bombay!

VIII.

Farewell, farewell, my parents dear,
My friends, farewell to them !
And oh, what costs a sadder tear,
Good-bye, to Mr. M!-
If I should find an Indian vault,
Or fall a tiger's prey,
Or steep in salt, it 's all his fault,
I'm going to Bombay!

IX. That fine new teak-built ship, the Fox, A.I. — Commander Bird, Now lying in the London Docks, Will sail on May the Third ; Apply for passage or for freight, To Nichol, Scott, and Gray — Pa has applied and sealed my fate – I'm going to Bombay!

My heart is full — my trunks as well; My mind and caps made up,

My corsets shaped by Mrs. Bell,
Are promised ere I sup;
With boots and shoes, Rivarta’s best,
And dresses by Ducé,
And a special license in my chest —
I'm going to Bombay !

ODE

TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF

SMITHFIELD MARKET.

“Sweeping our flocks and herds." — DOUGLAS.

O PHILANTHROPIC men!
For this address I need not make apology-
Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen,
And planting further off its vile Zoology –

Permit me thus to tell,

I like your efforts well,
For routing that great nest of Hornithology!

Be not dismayed, although repulsed at first,
And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb

parts, Charge on !- you shall upon their hornworks

burst, And carry all their Bull-warks and their Ram

parts,

Go on, ye wholesale drovers! And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds !

As wild as Tartar-Curds,
That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers,
Off with them all ! — those restive brutes, that vex
Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and
battle ;

And save the female sex
From being cowed — like lö — by the cattle!

Fancy, — when droves appear on The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top,Your ladies – ready, as they own, to drop, Taking themselves to Thomson's with a Fear-on!

Or, in St. Martin's Lane,
Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein,-
Fancy the terror of your timid daughters,

While rushing souse

Into a coffee-house,
To find it — Slaughter's !

Or fancy this: Walking along the street, some stranger Miss, Her head with no such thought of danger laden, When suddenly 'tis “ Aries Taurus Virgo !” — You don't know Latin, I translate it ergo, Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden !

Think of some poor old crone Treated, just like a penny, with a toss !

At that vile spot now grown

So generally known For making a Cow Cross !

Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall,
Or shed, or shop — and that an Ox infuriate

Just pins you to the wall,
Giving you a strong dose of Oxy-Muriate !

Methinks I hear the neighbours that live round

The Market-ground Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows — “ 'Tis well for you that live apart — unable

To hear this brutal Babel, But our firesides are troubled with their bellows."

“Folks that too freely sup

Must e'en put up
With their own troubles if they can't digest;

But we must needs regard

The case as hard That others' victuals should disturb our rest, That from our sleep your food should start and jump us !

We like, ourselves, a steak,

But, Sirs, for pity's sake!
We don't want oxen at our doors to rump-us!

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