George Colman

Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place,
Has seen "Lodgings to Let" stare him full in the face:
Some are good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis well known,
Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.

WILL WADDLE, whose temper was studious and lonely,
Hire'd lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only;
But WILL was so fat he appear'd like a ton;--
Or like Two Single Gentlemen roll'd into One.

He enter'd his rooms, and to bed he retreated;
But, all the night long, he felt fever'd, and heated;
And, tho' heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,
He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep.

Next night 'twas the same!--and the next;--and the next;
He perspire'd like an ox; he was nervous, and vex'd;
Week past after week; till, by weekly succe...

TOM, DICK, and WILL, were little known to Fame;--
No matter;--
But to the Ale-house, oftentimes, they came,
To chatter.

It was the custom of these three
To sit up late;
And, o'er the embers of the Ale-house fire,
When steadier customers retire,
The choice Triumviri, d'ye see,
Held a debate.

Held a debate?--On politicks, no doubt.
Not so;--they care'd not who was in,
No, not a pin;--
Nor who was out.

All their discourse on modern Poets ran;
For in the Muses was their sole delight;--
They talk'd of such, and such, and such a man;
Of those who could, and those who could not write.

It cost them very little pains
To count the modern Poets, who had brains.
'Twas a small difficulty;--'twasn't any;
They were so f...

Centrick, in London noise, and London follies,
Proud Covent Garden blooms, in smoky glory;
For chairmen, coffee-rooms, piazzas, dollies,
Cabbages, and comedians, fame'd in story!

On this gay spot, (upon a sober plan,)
Dwelt a right regular, and staid, young man;--
Much did he early hours and quiet love;
And was entitle'd Mr. Isaac Shove.

An Orphan he;--yet rich in expectations,
(Which nobody seem'd likely to supplant,)
From, that prodigious bore of all relations,
A fusty, canting, stiff-rump'd Maiden Aunt:
The wealthy Miss Lucretia Cloghorty,--
Who had brought Isaac up, and own'd to forty.

Shove on this maiden's Will relied securely;
Who vow'd she ne'er would wed, to mar his riches;
Full often would she say of men demurely,--

In our Fifth Harry's reign, when 'twas the fashion
To thump the French, poor creatures! to excess;--
Tho' Britons, now a days, shew more compassion,
And thump them, certainly, a great deal less;--

In Harry's reign, when flush'd Lancastrian roses
Of York's pale blossoms had usurp'd the right;[3]
As wine drives Nature out of drunkards' noses,
Till red, triumphantly, eclipses white;--
In Harry's reign--but let me to my song,
Or good king Harry's reign may seem too long.

SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM, a gallant knight,
When this king Harry went to war, in France,
Girded a sword about his middle;
Resolving, very lustily, to fight,
And teach the Frenchmen how to dance,
Without a fiddle.

And wond'rous bold Sir Thomas prove'd in battle,
Perfor...

1

Such star-like lustre lights her Eyes,
They must have darted from a Sphere,
Our duller System to surprise,
Outshining all the Planets here;
And, having wander'd from their wonted place,
Fix in the wond'rous Heaven of her Face.


2

The modest Rose, whose blushes speak
The ardent kisses of the Sun,
Off'ring a tribute to her Cheek,
Droops, to perceive its Tint outdone;
Then withering with envy and despair,
Dies on her Lips, and leaves its Fragrance there.


3

Ringlets, that to her Breast descend,
Increase the beauties they invade;
Thus branches in luxuriance bend,
To grace the lovely Hills they shade;

A man, in many a country town, we know,
Professes openly with death to wrestle;
Ent'ring the field against the grimly foe,
Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle.

Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are;
But meet just like prize-fighters, in a Fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother:
So (many a suff'ring Patient saith)
Tho' the Apothecary fights with Death,
Still they're sworn friends to one another.

A member of this Æsculapian line,
Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill:
Or make a bill;
Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head;
Or chatter scandal by your bed;
Or give a clyster.

Of occupation...

On a wild Moor, all brown and bleak,
Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse,
There stood a tenement antique;
Lord Hoppergollop's country house.

Here Silence reign'd, with lips of glue,
And undisturb'd maintain'd her law;
Save when the Owl cry'd "whoo! whoo! whoo!"
Or the hoarse Crow croak'd "caw! caw! caw!"

Neglected mansion!--for, 'tis said,
Whene'er the snow came feathering down,
Four barbed steeds,--from the Bull's head,
Carried thy master up to town.

Weak Hoppergollop!--Lords may moan,
Who stake, in London, their estate,
On two, small, rattling, bits of bone;
On little figure, or on great.

Swift whirl the wheels.--He's gone.--A Rose
Remains behind, whose virgin look,
Unseen, must blush in wintry snows,