Good people all,
Both great and small,
Come listen to my rhyme!
Let others sing the praise of Spring:
My theme's the Christmas time.
['Old up the lantern, vill you, Bill?]
Oh! time of joy
To man and boy;
Rich, poor; grave, gay; low, high:
When none but sounds of mirth are heard;
And only criers cry.
Come, ope your gates!
The bellman waits
To claim his annual levy.
And hopes, to lighten his old heart,
You'll stand a pot of heavy.
['Ow werry sewere the cold is, to be sure! it qvite makes von's head
turn round. I might have been having a drop too much—and I'm sure I
haven't: no—not a drop—too much. I only had half a pint o' beer at Mr.
Simkins's—and a small glass of gin at Mr. Wiggins's—and the least drop
as ever vos o' visky at Mr. Higgins's—and a pot of porter at Mr.
Figgins's—and a thimbleful of brandy at Mr. Villiam Smith's—and a mug of
stout at Mr. Valter Smith's—and a glass of grog at Mr. Thomas Smith's—
and the share of a pint of purl at Mr. John Smith's—and a teacupful of
cherry bounce at Vidow Smith's—and a draught of Dublin stout at Miss
Smith's—and I'm sure that couldn't do nob'dy no harm; could it, Bill?]
There's not a stage
Of youth or age—
No spot in life's dull round,
But, like a guardian angel, there
Your faithful crier is found.
[Vell, I never vos out in sech a frost in _my_ life: I can't keep my
legs the least bit as ever vos. Slippery times these is, to be sure.
Hold the lantern up, vill you, Bill?]
When first a wild
And "poor lost child,"
Seduced by Punch's laughter,
You stray in tears about the streets,
Don't I go crying after?
[_Vill_ you 'old the lantern stiddy, Bill; and not keep vhirling it
about in that vay. Vot lots o' rewolving lights there is in this part of
the city, to be sure!]
In after-life,
When vixen wife
Goes running o'er the town;
And, what is worse, runs you in debt;
Why—don't I cry her down?
[Vell, I'm blest if ever I see such printing as this: they've let the
paper slip, and printed the werses twice over.]
And when Lord Mayor,
The civic chair
With dignity you press,
For very joy, then, don't I cry—
Oh, yes! oh, yes! oh, yes!
[I vishes them there vaits vouldn't make such a nise with their 'arps
and 'orns: nob'dy can't 'ear a vord as _I_ says: they're no gentlemen,
I'm sure: they might vait vaiting till I've done.]
Then listen all,
Both great and small,
To what your crier declares:
Be sober [_hiccup_], true, and honest; and
You all may be Lord Mayors.
[It's no use talking—nor reading nayther—for I can't get a vord out—it's
so werry cold! Werses is qvite lost sitch rhymy veather as this. Bill, I
see there's music and dancing going on at the gin shop over the vay; so
never mind boxing no more to-night, but let's go and jine in the
"Waults."]