MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. XXV11 



JOHN BULL'S CHRISTMAS ADDRESS TO 

 HIS PRIZE BEASTS. 



TUNE. " Scots wha hae." 



Stots * wha hae on oil-cake fed, 

 Stots wham Hill and Stratton bred, 

 Welcome to your gory bed, 

 Flushed with victorie. 



Now's the day, and now's the hour : 

 See the mighty pulleys lour : 

 See approach the rifle's power, 

 Pointed full at yee. 



Wha will be a meatless knave ? 



Wha will be mere suet's slave ? 



Wha sae base] as earn a grave, 



'Neath a chandler's ee ? 



Physic, Labour, Church, and Law, 

 Eound your Christmas tables draw ! 

 Bullock, noble bullock, fa', 

 Their top dish to be ! 



By the choicest of champagnes 

 By the bird in sausage chains 

 Grant me gravy from thy veins, 

 Streaked so juicily. 



Be the figure high or low, 

 Thoughts of that are ne'er my foe 

 I will have a noble blow- 

 out this year on thee. 



CULSHAW, THE TOWNELEY HERDSMAN, 

 TO BEAUTY'S BUTTERFLY. 



AIR " She's all my fancy painted Tier." 



BEAUTY, and MASTER BUTTERFLY, your daughter is divine ; 

 There's but one tiny crumple, from her huggins to her chine : 

 There's few can show the calves I can, Yet few dare feed so high ; 

 Has RICHARD BOOTH a Queen like you ? My Beauty's Butterfly ! 



Anglice*, a young bullock. 



