Rejected Addresses Part 7

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!"

PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS--BY S. T. C. {59} {99}

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

HOR.

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 a.s.sembles 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 of Blackfriars' Road, {60} who hymned 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 hodded heads, but these stretch'd forth a pole From the wall's pinnacle, they plac'd 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! {61} 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, Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee push'd Back from the narrow street that christened 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 its Blue Beard, Stuff'd by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis, As spruce as he who roar'd in Padmanaba. {62} 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.

DRURY-LANE HUSTINGS--A New Halfpenny Ballad.

BY A PIC-NIC POET. {63}

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 judgment that makes it.--TIMON OF ATHENS.

[To be sung by MR. JOHNSON in the character of LOONEY M'TWOLTER.]

I.

Mr. Jack, your address, says the Prompter to me, So I gave him my card--No, that a'nt it, says he; 'Tis your public address. Oh! says I, never fear, If address you are bother'd for, only look here.

[Puts on hat affectedly.

Tol de rol lol, &c.

II.

With Drurys for sartin we'll never have done, We've built up another, and yet there's but one; The old one was best, yet I'd say, if I durst, The new one is better--the last is the first.

Tol de rol, &c.

III.

These pillars are call'd by a Frenchified word, A something that's jumbled of antique and verd; The boxes may show us some verdant antiques, Some old harridans who beplaster their cheeks.

Tol de rol, &c.

IV.

Only look how high Tragedy, Comedy, stick, Lest their rivals, the horses, should give them a kick!

If you will not descend when our authors beseech ye, You'll stop there for life, for I'm sure they can't reach ye.

Tol de rol, &c.

V.

Each one shilling G.o.d within reach of a nod is, And plain are the charms of each gallery G.o.ddess - You, Brandy-fac'd Moll, don't be looking askew, When I talk'd of a G.o.ddess I didn't mean you.

Tol de rol, &c.

VI.

Our stage is so prettily fashion'd for viewing, The whole house can see what the whole house is doing: 'Tis just like the Hustings, we kick up a bother; But saying is one thing, and doing's another.

Tol de rol, &c.

VII.

We've many new houses, and some of them rum ones, But the newest of all is the new House of Commons; 'Tis a rickety sort of a bantling, I'm told, It will die of old age when it's seven years old.

Tol de rol, &c.

VIII.

As I don't know on whom the election will fall, I move in return for returning them all; But for fear Mr. Speaker my meaning should miss, The house that I wish 'em to sit in is this.

Tol de rol, &c

IX.

Let us cheer our great Commoner, but for whose aid We all should have gone with short commons to bed; And since he has saved all the fat from the fire, I move that the house be call'd Whitbread's Entire. {64} Tol de rol, &c.