When plump flew the pudding down Giles's throat, Now his ghost, once a year, bolting pudding wwwwwww seen, Ding, dong, bo! MAJOR MACPHERSON AND MISS SCOUT. MAJOR Macpherson heaved a sigh, Tol de diddle dol, &c. And Major Macpherson didn't know why, Tol de, &c. And, since on her I still must doat, I'll make it a point to cut my throat. Tol de, &c. Tol de, &c. Tol de, &c. Tol de, &c. Then Major Macpherson took a razor, Tol de, &c. And, says he, d-n me but I'll amaze her! Tol de, &c. My fate's decreed-my hour is come; Tol de, &c. Then he drew the edge-across his thumb; Tol de, &c. Tol de, &c. And still on his woes did the Major harp, But the Major was young, and the razor was sharp; Tol de, &c. tead of his throat, he cut his corns. THE WASHING DAY. xy with clouds was overcast, rain began to fall, e she beat the children, rais'd a pretty squall; le me with a scolding look, et out of her way; Pil a bit of comfort's there, on a washing day. it of comfort's there, all on a washing day. te she is a bonny wife, -e's none so free from evil, upon a washing day, then she is the devil; hey jump, with many a thump, on a washing day. d of mine once asked me, long Kate had been dead ting the good creature, sorry I was wed a scolding vixen, st he had been at sea. uth it was he chanced to come na washing day, I asked him to come and dine- But I'll wager he'll not come again, For it's thump, &c. TUNE.-Oh! what a row!' COME, folks, come to my phrenologic lecturing, Bring all your heads with ye-I'll silence all conjecturing My bump-descerning talents sure none deny, My system orthodox is, O! Just only now my hand allow To feel your knowledge-boxes, O! Of this bump or that, which from mental causes swell up so, I'll make it clear each bumpkin here its organ shall develope so, Lumps, bumps, pates, fates, scullery, medullary, SPOKEN.] 'Ladies and shentlemans, I be come all de vay from Jarmany for to impart to de English nation de benefit of prhenology. Allow me sir to feel your head.'-' Well, what do you feel?' Here's the organ of disinterestedness as pig as a tompling.'-'What, that there bump?'-'Yes.'-Well, then, you know a great deal about it, for I got that by running my head against the pole of a hackney-coach in the minories,' Come, folks, &c. Love's ogling now no emotion of the soul implies; Lavater and system, if you'd live renounce; Carbuncle, or grog blossom, no devotion to the bowl implies, Propensity we only see upon the sconce! The swelling heart can ne'er impart its feelings by the throb alone, The head that swells much better tells by counting of the nobs alone! We're an ultra intellectually organized nobility. SPOKEN.] Plesh my soul, plesh my soul, vat a bump! It is the organ of transportation for fourteen years'' Master, you be talking so much about these here organs, be they any thing like the organ which is played at Vauxhall?' No, my good fellow, the differance is this; the organ at Vauxhall is played by keys, which are flats and sharps, but the organs of Gall are fingered by flats alone.' Come, folks, &c. Senatorial candidates, for suffrages solicitous, Must go in shoals, with shaven poles, to poll for votes, And matrimonial suitors, to terminate felicitous, To woo sincere, must now appear as bald as coots. Don't, if you wed, expose your head, At Samson's bumps, she slyly did, To find, no doubt, the organ out his weakness did consist in, She shaved his head, and then betrayed him to the wicked Philistine. Lumps, bumps, &c. SPOKEN.] My dear sir, permit my hand one moment's proximity to your pericranium. Bless me, very strange; I beg to inquire if you were ever trepanned, sir?'-' Never, since my marriage; that's the only time they ever trepanned me, and they won't catch me at that fun again!'- -Ah! I declare here is the organ of adhesiveness.'- True doctor, wery true, and wery adhesive; it's a bit of bees-wax I put there to keep my vig on, as the vind is high on Wauxhall-bridge. Come, folks, &c. TUNE, The young May Moon.' THE lamps are faintly gleaming, love, O'er the dead wall, While the tabbies are gently screaming, love. We'll sleep when we please, And we'll ramble abroad through the night, my dear. Now all the world is sleeping, love! But the bulky his night-watch keeping, love! |