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!

If we do doze - it really is too bad!
We constantly are roared awake or rung,
Through bullocks mad

That run in all the Night Thoughts' of our Young!"

Such are the woes of sleepers

now let's take

The woes of those that wish to keep a Wake!
Oh think! when Wombwell gives his annual

feasts,

Think of these "Bulls of Basan," far from mild

ones;

Such fierce tame beasts,

That nobody much cares to see the Wild ones!

Think of the Show woman, "what shows a Dwarf,"

Seeing a red Cow come

To swallow her Tom Thumb,

And forced with broom of birch to keep her off!

Think, too, of Messrs. Richardson and Co.,
When looking at their public private boxes,
To see in the back row

Three live sheep's heads, a porker's and an Ox's!
Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come
Through, to accompany the double drum!

Or, in the midst of murder and remorses,
Just when the Ghost is certain,

A great rent in the curtain,

And enter two tall skeletons of Horses!

Great Philanthropics! pray urge these topics!
Upon the Solemn Councils of the Nation,
Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon,
The Bulls, a Bull of Excommunication !

Let the old Fair have fair-play as its right,
And to each show and sight

Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude;
To Richardson's Stage Dramas,

Dio

- and Cosmo- ramas,

Giants and Indians wild,

Dwarf, Sea Bear, and Fat Child,

And that most rare of Shows a Show of Gratitude!

ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE.

"Look out for squalls.". THE PILOT.

O COME, dear Barney Isaacs, come,
Punch for one night can spare his drum

As well as pipes of Pan!

Forget not, Popkins, your bassoon,

Nor, Mister Bray, your horn, as soon

As you can leave the Van;

Blind Billy, bring your violin ;

Miss Crow you're great in Cherry Ripe!
And Chubb, your viol must drop in
Its bass to Soger Tommy's pipe.

An

Ye butchers, bring your bones : organ would not be amiss;

If grinding Jim has spouted his,

Lend your's, good Mister Jones.

Do, hurdy-gurdy Jenny,- do
Keep sober for an hour or two,
Music's charms to help to paint.
And, Sandy Gray, if you should not
Your bagpipes bring O tuneful Scot!
Conceive the feelings of the Saint!

Miss Strummel issues an invite,
For music, and turn-out to night
In honour of Cecilia's session;
But ere you go, one moment stop,
And with all kindness let me drop
A hint to you, and your profession;
Imprimis then: Pray keep within

The bounds to which your skill was born;
Let the one-handed let alone

Don't

Trombone,

Rheumatiz! seize the violin,

Or Ashmy snatch the horn!

Don't ever to such rows give birth,

As if you had no end on earth,

Except to "wake the lyre;'

Don't "strike the harp," pray never do,
Till others long to strike it too,
Perpetual harping 's apt to tire ;

Oh I have heard such flat-and-sharpers,
I've blest the head

Of good King Ned,

For scragging all those old Welsh Harpers!

Pray, never, ere each tuneful doing,
Take a prodigious deal of wooing;
And then sit down to thrum the strain,
As if you'd never rise again
The least Cecilia-like of things;
Remember that the Saint has wings.

I've known Miss Strummel pause an hour,
Ere she could "Pluck the Fairest Flower."
Yet without hesitation, she

Plunged next into the "Deep, Deep Sea,”
And when on the keys she does begin,
Such awful torments soon you share,
She really seems like Milton's "Sin,"
Holding the keys of you know where !

Never tweak people's ears so toughly,
That urchin-like they can't help saying-
"O dear! O dear you call this playing,
But oh, it's playing very roughly!"
Oft, in the ecstasy of pain,

I've cursed all instrumental workmen,

Wished Broadwood Thurtelled in a lane,