440 Ballad d la Bayly. [OcT. 



Ye nine-and-twenty years ! I could 



Apostrophize your flight 

 In strains would make great Matthew Wood 



Put out his little light. 

 But ye are gone and where's the use 



Of metrical regret ? 

 Or tears, to render my dry muse 



Uncomfortably wet? 



The pump which now at Aldgate stands 



Had the same handle then ; 

 "Pis handled now by other hands, 



Another race of men ! 

 Phil. Potts was then a serving-lad, 



A big-boy sort of man ; 

 The boy is father to the dad" 



He's now a publican ! 



Jack Skrimshaw kept his horse and chaise 



And rolled in port and pelf: 

 Now Jack, in these degenerate days, 



Can barely keep himself ! 

 Wilks, Wilkins, Wilkinson, and Wicks, 



Brown, Buggins, Biggs, and Bate, 

 Hogg, Huggins, Higgins, Higgs, and Hicks, 



Are all in the same state ! 



There's Thrift, who lent his thousands out, 



And dined on two polonies, 

 Now phaetonizes town about 



With two black-spotted ponies ; 

 And Grasp, who ground the poor to dust, 



Hard-hearted as a target, 

 Has left Bread- Ward his marble bust, 



And feeds the world at Margate ! 



The Dobbses, who then cut a dash, 



And led the ton of Aldgate, 

 Grew out of vogue when out of cash, 



And sank to Norton-Falgate ; 

 The Hobbses, once in Dobbs's case, 



Proud when a Dobbs would lighten ' 

 The darkness of their dwelling-place, 



Now cut them dead at Brighton. 



Thus runs the world, thus ran the world, 



And thus it still shall run, 

 Till into atoms it is hurled, 



And quenched are moon and sun ! 

 Who shall recount the ups and downs, 



The laughter and the tears, 

 The kicks and cuffs, the smiles and frowns, 



Of five-and-twenty years ! C. W. 



