1831.] [ 407 ] 



THE TABERNACLE, OR SUNDAY IN LUNNUN. 



COME, ye mopes, and drones, and droopers ! 

 Listen to me in your stupors ; 

 Come, ye gaunt and grim old maids ! 

 Long since fitted for the shades ; 

 Hear me, from your darkest den, 

 All ye " old, unmarried" men ! 

 All ye tribes of wretches, come 

 Denizens of sin and gloom ! 

 Give me a responsive throe, 

 While I sing your song of woe ! 



Morn is up pale, chill, and murky 

 Looking well inclined to Burke ye ; 

 Through the fetid fog the bell 

 Rings as with your funeral knell ; 

 Heaven is cloud, and Earth is mud, 

 Promising a London flood. 

 Just as strikes the last half-hour, 

 Down comes, thick and thin, the shower ! 

 On ye put your Sunday satins, 

 Hurrying to your doctor's matins ; 

 Slippery every stone as glass, 

 (Lately, too, broke up for gas !) 

 All the brats of shops and schools, 

 All the " mighty serious" fools, 

 All the 'prentice-gentlemen, 

 Promenading through the fen 

 Till subsides the general cackle 

 At the pious Tabernacle ! 



There you find no Doctor Prosy, 

 As an apple round and rosy ; 

 Happy proof that all the dinners 

 Are not left among the sinners ; 

 Happy proof that beef may line 

 Cheeks and ribs the most divine ; 

 Happy proof that port may paint 

 Even the most world-hating saint ! 

 There you find wild, gaunt, arid grim- 

 Fierce of face, and lank of limb, 

 With that mystic sweep of eye, 

 Fixed at once on earth and sky ; 

 Now a comet's fiery glare 

 Blazing from his matted hair j 

 Now a melancholy moon, 

 Melting to some wizard tune ; 

 Whiskered like a bold hussar, 

 Stands our man of holy war. 



Every hole and corner filled ; 

 All the winter asthmas stilled ; 

 All the brats forbid to cry ; 

 All the hats and caps laid by ; 

 Past, in short, the usual rustle 

 Of the saintly in a bustle ; 

 Hushed the clearing of the lungs ; 

 Hushed almost the women's tongues ; 

 All the world behind them cast 

 * Comes the mighty man at last ! 



