Last Dying Speech — And Farewell to the World — Of the Lord Mayor’s Show
Who suffered the extreme penalty of the law, Saturday, November 9th, 1867.
Come one and all, pray listen to my ditty,
Good times have gone by,—oh dear what a pity!
The procession this year I have to relate,
And how on the ninth they will all go in state.
They all shake their heads and say it’s no go,
It’s the last dying speech of the Lord Mayor’s Show.
At half-past eleven, by the word of command,
From Guildhall will tumble a big German Band;
With mounted police,—to you it is plain—
On their hats stuck a lamp with a portrait of Mayne
Old Alderman Gobble with a large Chinese gong,
Six girls with six shoelacks stuck on their chignons
They set backside before, and so on you will find,
And for reins hold the ribbons that hang down behind.
There’s the old Lord Mayor stuck on a blind horse
Like an old turtle, with his fat legs across;
It will make him sore behind if he has a long ride,
He has lost the key, or he would creep inside.
Then the sword-bearer he will make a start,
He sits like a king in an old donkey cart;
He sold his hairy cap to make him a muff,
And he has broke his sword on the old donkey’s duff.
The great City Marshall, he is not much use,
He is flying about like a one-legged goose;
He is here and he’s there, and he’s off in a crack,
You would think he had swallowed the New Streets Act.
The poor men in armour are not here to day,
Through last year’s exertion they sweated away;
They are selling fusees—it’s a very bad trade,
And all the poor horses into sausages are made.
There’s old Parson Spurgeon, as sly as a fox,
On a chair with two sticks, just like a Guy Faux;
With tracts in his hand, you soon will him spy,
And a dish of fine sprats and a tear in each eye.
There’s poor Gog and Magog, so it appears,
With a pail in each hand to catch their own tears,
They both weep in anguish and been heard to say
The days of our pastime are faded away.
Then comes the Lord Mayor—he makes it a rule,
He rides on the back of an Abyssinian mule;
The great Lady Mayoress, if her sight does not fail,
She sits on behind, and holds on to his tail.
All the old Companies have gone to the wall,
No old blokes in livery was there at all;
The flags and the banners, as I’m a sinner,
Were put in the rag scale to get them a dinner.
Now where’s the old coachman with his powdered wig?
Who drove the state carriage so noble and big?
If I tell you the truth, it will break your heart,
They have sold the old coach to make a muck cart,
They’re stopping all pleasure, except for the swells,
In the course of time, there’ll be no pretty girls;
No pleasure for children, but you can let them know,
That a thing of the past is the Lord Mayor’s Show.
For in the year ’67, how funny you know,
There’s a New Streets Act, and there’s no Lord Mayor’s Show.
W. Garbutt.
H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.