XII.

For Time would, with us, 'stead of sand, Put filings of steel in his glass, To dry up the blots of his hand, And spangle life's page as they pass. Since all flesh is grass ere 'tis hay,[43] O may I in clover live snug, And when old Time mows me away, Be stacked with defunct Lady Mugg!

'"The Beautiful Incendiary," by the Honourable W. Spencer, is also an imitation of great merit. The flashy, fashionable, artificial style of this writer, with his confident and extravagant compliments, can scarcely be said to be parodied in such lines.'--_Edinburgh Review._

FIRE AND ALE.

BY M. G. L.[44]

Omnia transformat sese in miracula rerum.--VIRGIL.

My palate is parched with Pierian thirst, Away to Parnassus I'm beckoned; List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehearsed, I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first, And the birth of Miss Drury the second.

The Fire King, one day, rather amorous felt; He mounted his hot copper filly; His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt Was made of cast iron, for fear it should melt With the heat of the copper colt's belly.

Sure never was skin half so scalding as his! When an infant 'twas equally horrid; For the water, when he was baptised, gave a fizz, And bubbled and simmer'd and started off, whizz! As soon as it sprinkled his forehead.

Oh! then there was glitter and fire in each eye, For two living coals were the symbols; His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry, It rattled against them, as though you should try To play the piano in thimbles.

From his nostrils a lava sulphureous flows, Which scorches wherever it lingers; A snivelling fellow he's call'd by his foes, For he can't raise his paw up to blow his red nose, For fear it should blister his fingers.

His wig is of flames curling over his head, Well-powder'd with white smoking ashes; He drinks gunpowder tea, melted sugar of lead, Cream of tartar, and dines on hot spiced gingerbread, Which black from the oven he gnashes.

Each fire nymph his kiss from her countenance shields, 'Twould soon set her cheekbone a frying; He spit in the tenter ground near Spitalfields, And the hole that it burnt, and the chalk that it yields, Make a capital lime-kiln 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.

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 In his cinder-producing alliance? 'Tis Drury Lane Playhouse, so wide, and so tall, Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall, If she cannot set sparks at defiance.

On his warming-pan kneepan 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!

Oh! then she look'd sour, and indeed well she 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.

Look! look! 'tis the Ale King, so stately and 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!'

'"Fire and Ale," by M. G. Lewis, exhibits not only a faithful copy of the spirited, loose, and flowing versification of that singular author, but a very just representation of that mixture of extravagance and jocularity which has impressed most of his writings with the character of a sort of farcical horror.'--_Edinburgh Review._

PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS.

BY S. T. C.[45]

Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim Credebat libris; neque si male cesserat, usquam Decurrens alio, neque si bene. HORACE.

My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad? I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey To carry to the mart her crockery ware, And when that donkey look'd me in the face, His face was sad! and you are sad, my Public!

Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October Again assembles us in Drury Lane. Long wept my eye to see the timber planks That hid our ruins; many a day I cried, Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it! Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve, As along Charles Street I prepared to walk, Just at the corner, by the pastrycook's, I heard a trowel tick against a brick. I look'd me up, and straight a parapet Uprose at least seven inches o'er the planks. Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said: He[46] of Blackfriars' Road, who hymn'd thy downfall In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma, Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee, Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour, As leisure offer'd, close to Mr. Spring's Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders. They had a plan to render less their labours; Workmen in olden times would mount a ladder With hooded heads, but these stretch'd 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, And in the empty basket workmen twain Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth.

Oh! 'twas a goodly sound, to hear the people Who watch'd the work, express their various thoughts! While some believed it never would be finish'd, Some, on the contrary, believed it would.

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; As it now looks, they call it Wyatt's Mermaid, A handsome woman with a fish's tail.

White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet Street: The Albion (as its name denotes) is white; Morgan and Saunders' shop for chairs and tables Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun; White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride's in Fleet Street, The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders, Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury's face.

Oh, Mr. Whitbread![47] fie upon you, sir! I think you should have built a colonnade; When tender Beauty, looking for her coach, Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower, And draws the tippet closer round her throat, Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off, And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud Soaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow, 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! What is the Regency in Tottenham Street, The Royal Amphitheatre of Arts, Astley's, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil, Compar'd with thee? Yet when I view thee push'd Back from the narrow street that christen'd 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, Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig; Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist Of former Drury, imitated life 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.[48] Nought born on earth should die. On hackney stands I reverence the coachman who cries 'Gee,' And spares the lash. When I behold a spider Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm, Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton, Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick! [_Exit hastily._

'Mr. Coleridge will not, we fear, be as much entertained as we were with his 'Playhouse Musings,' which begin with characteristic pathos and simplicity, and put us much in mind of the affecting story of old Poulter's mare.'--_Quarterly Review._

'"Playhouse Musings,"' by Mr. Coleridge, a piece which is unquestionably Lakish, though we cannot say that we recognise in it any of the peculiar traits of that powerful and misdirected genius whose name it has borrowed. We rather think, however, that the tuneful brotherhood will consider it as a respectable eclogue.'--_Edinburgh Review._

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 judgement that makes it. TIMON OF ATHENS.

[_To be sung by Mr._ JOHNSTONE _in the character of_ LOONEY M'TWOLTER.]