4gS The Ninth of November. QNov. 



Through landscapes gay, bloomhig, and briaiy ; 

 And so, as you seem rather pensive to-night. 

 To dispel your blue-devils, I'll briefly recite 



A specimen-leaf from my diary : — 



Through smoke-clouds as dark as a forest of rooks. 

 The rich contribution of blacksmiths and cooks 



From the huge hiunan oven below, 

 I heard old St. Paul's gaily pealing away ; 

 Thinks I to myself, ' It is Lord Mayor's Day, 



So, I'll go down and look at the Show.' 



I spread out my pinions, and sprang on my perch — 

 'Twas the dragon on Bow, that odd sign of the church. 



The episcopal centre of action : 

 All Cheapside was crowded with black, brown, and fair, 

 Like a harlequin's. jacket, or French rocquelaire, 



A legitimate Cheapside attraction. 



Then rung through the tumult a trumpet so shrill, 

 That it frightened the ladies all down Ludgate Hill, 



And the owlets in Ivy Lane : 

 Then came in their chariots, each face hi full blow. 

 The sheriffs and aldermen, solemn and slow. 



All bombazine, bag-wig, and chain. 



Then came the old tumbril-shaped city machine, 

 ■\Vlth a lord mayor so fat that he made the eDach lean ; 



Lord "Waithman was scarcely a brighter man : — 

 The wits said the old groaning waggon of state. 

 Which for ages had carried lord mayors of such weight. 



To-day would break down with a lighter-man. 



Then proud as a prince, at the head of the band 

 Rode the city field-marshal, with truncheon in hand. 



Though his epaulettes lately are gone : 

 But he's still line enough to astonish the cits. 

 And drive the occonomists out of their wits. 



From Lords Waithman and Wood, to Lord John. 



But I now left the pageant— wits, worthies, and all — 

 And flew through the smoke to the roof of Guildhall, 



And perched on the grand chandelier : 

 The dinner was stately, the tables were full — 

 There sat, multiplied by three thousand, John Bull, 



Resolved to make all disappear. 



And then rame the speeches : Lord Hunter was fine — 

 Lord Wood, finer still — Lord Thompson, divine — 



The sheriffs were Ciceros a-piece ; 

 Lord Crowther was sick, though he managed to eat 

 What, if races were feasts, would have won him the plate ; 



But he tossed off a bumper to Greece. 



Then aU was enchantment — all hublnib and smiles — 

 The wit of Old Jewry, the grace of St. Giles, 



The force of the Billingsgate tongue ; 

 Till the eloquent Lord Mayor demanding ' Who malts ?' — 

 The understood sign for beginning the waltz — ^ 



In a fright through the ceiling I sprung !' '' 



