A Plain Direction
“Do you never deviate?”
John Bull.
In London once I lost my way
In faring to and fro,
And ask’d a little ragged boy
The way that I should go;
He gave a nod, and then a wink,
And told me to get there
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I box’d his little saucy ears,
And then away I strode;
But since I’ve found that weary path
Is quite a common road.
Utopia is a pleasant place,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I’ve read about a famous town
That drove a famous trade,
Where Whittington walk’d up and found
A fortune ready made.
The very streets are paved with gold;
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I’ve read about a Fairy Land,
In some romantic tale,
Where Dwarfs if good are sure to thrive
And wicked Giants fail.
My wish is great, my shoes are strong,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I’ve heard about some happy Isle,
Where ev’ry man is free,
And none can lie in bonds for life
For want of L. S. D.
Oh that’s the land of Liberty!
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square,”
I’ve dreamt about some blessed spot,
Beneath the blessed sky,
Where Bread and Justice never rise
Too dear for folks to buy.
It’s cheaper than the Ward of Cheap,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
They say there is an ancient House,
As pure as it is old,
Where Members always speak their minds
And votes are never sold.
I’m fond of all antiquities,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
They say there is a Royal Court
Maintain’d in noble state,
Where ev’ry able man, and good,
Is certain to be great!
I’m very fond of seeing sights,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
They say there is a Temple too,
Where Christians come to pray;
But canting knaves and hypocrites,
And bigots keep away.
Oh that’s the parish church for me!
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
They say there is a Garden fair,
That’s haunted by the dove,
Where love of gold doth ne’er eclipse
The golden light of love—
The place must be a Paradise,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I’ve heard there is a famous Land
For public spirit known—
Whose Patriots love its interests
Much better than their own.
The Land of Promise sure it is!
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I’ve read about a fine Estate,
A Mansion large and strong;
A view all over Kent and back,
And going for a song.
George Robins knows the very spot,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I’ve heard there is a Company
All formal and enroll’d,
Will take your smallest silver coin
And give it back in gold.
Of course the office door is mobb’d,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I’ve heard about a pleasant Land,
Where omelettes grow on trees,
And roasted pigs run crying out,
“Come eat me, if you please.”
My appetite is rather keen,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
THE ASSISTANT DRAPERS’ PETITION.36
“Now’s the time and now’s the hour,”—BURNS.
“Seven’s the main.”—CROCKFORD.
Pity the sorrows of a class of men,
Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity,
No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen,
But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality.
Oppress’d and discontented with our lot,
Amongst the clamorous we take our station;
A host of Ribbon Men—yet is there not
One piece of Irish in our agitation.
We do revere Her Majesty the Queen,
We venerate our Glorious Constitution;
We joy King William’s advent should have been,
And only want a Counter Revolution.
’Tis not Lord Russell and his final measure,
’Tis not Lord Melbourne’s counsel to the throne,
’Tis not this Bill, or that, gives us displeasure,
The measures we dislike are all our own.
The Cash Law the “Great Western” loves to name;
The tone our foreign policy pervading;
The Corn Laws—none of these we care to blame,
Our evils we refer to over-trading.
By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn;
We reverence the Church—but hang the cloth!
We love her ministers—but curse the lawn!
We have, alas! too much to do with both!
We love the sex:—to serve them is a bliss!
We trust they find us civil, never surly;
All that we hope of female friends is this,
That their last linen may be wanted early.
Ah! who can tell the miseries of men
That serve the very cheapest shops in town?
Till faint and weary, they leave off at ten,
Knock’d up by ladies beating of ’em down!
But has not Hamlet his opinion given—
O Hamlet had a heart for Drapers’ servants!
“That custom is”—say custom after seven—
“More honor’d in the breach than the observance.”
O come then, gentle ladies, come in time,
O’erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves;
Torment us all until the seventh chime,
But let us have the remnant to ourselves!
We wish of knowledge to lay in a stock,
And not remain in ignorance incurable;—
To study Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Locke,
And other fabrics that have proved so durable.
We long for thoughts of intellectual kind,
And not to go bewilder’d to our beds;
With stuff and fustian taking up the mind,
And pins and needles running in our heads!
For oh! the brain gets very dull and dry,
Selling from morn till night for cash or credit;
Or with a vacant face and vacant eye,
Watching cheap prints that Knight did never edit.
Till sick with toil, and lassitude extreme,
We often think, when we are dull and vapoury,
The bliss of Paradise was so supreme,
Because that Adam did not deal in drapery.