[Illustration:
FEBRUARY.—Frost Fair.
]
FROST FAIR:
A LAMENT. BY TOM TUG.
Vell, blow me tight, but here's a go! I can't hardly believe my eyes,
It's a rig'lar Bartlemy Fair afloat, vith its stalls, and peep-shows,
and t'ys,
And vonderful lambs vithout niver a head, and vonderfuller pigs with
three;
And ships a svimmin' about in the air, instead of on the water, vere
they orts to be;
And chaps a selling peppermint to keep the cold out, vich is jest the
vorst thing under the sun;
And people a having their names printed on cards, vot can't read 'em
ven they're done;
And lads and lasses a dancing and singing, and up to all manner o'
queer raps;
And fat sheep a roasting whole, but not a bit for us poor amphibilous
chaps;
And fellers a playing at nine pins on the ice, vot can't stand on their
own two;
And ticket porters a stopping to see Punch, instead of going on their
arrans, as they orts to do;
And firemen a cutting about here and there, as big and grand as any
lord or squire.
Vith their red coats and badges—I s'pose they're afeard o' someb'dy's
setting the Thames afire—
And booths up and down of all sorts and sizes, till it looks like a
Boothia Felix quite,
Vith the moniment for the North Pole—that is, ven the fog and smoke'll
let you git a sight—
And the turnpike men off the warious bridges, vith nothink in the vorld
to do all day
But go to sleep on their rusty turnstiles, for in course people ain't
sitch spoons as to pay
To pass thro' their rewolving plate-warmers, ven they can go over the
vater free;
Vich I don't care so much for the bridge chaps, 'cause they does a good
deal o' harm to we.
As for Billingsgate Market, the trade there's downright flat, ruinated
and dead;
The fine fresh soles can't come up to be cried, and so they cries
cast-metal skates instead.
I alvays thought sitch things vos regilated by act of parlyment, and
proclaimed by the Lord Mayor;
I knows a bit o' Burnses's Justice, I does; and my opinion is, it aint
a legle fair.
It's a nice look out, ain't it, for a young man vot the vater's his
only bread?
I'm blowed if I don't think I shall cut the river, and take to the land
instead,
And labour for the adwantage o' science—body-snatching, I mean—for
where's the harm, ifegs!
Ven their ain't no further demand for skulls, to try to do a little
bisness in arms and legs?
As for the vind, I think it'll never be nothink but due nor' again:
I often looks up at the weathercock, but, bless your heart, it's all in
_vane_!
Poor fellers! as Shakespear says, our occipation's rig'lar done up, and
no mistake,
Vot vith von thing or another (vich von misfortin, you know, alvays
brings another in its wake).
I don't like to say nothink unliberal or unvatermanlike, but this I
vill say, the ruin of us is
Them tarnation, smoking, steaming, fizzing, pothering,
unnattaral-looking water-buses.
Unnattaral, _I say_—for who ever meant wessels to go on wheels? or a
nasty, long, curly, black,
Stinking, pothery pennant o' smoke to take place o' the British Union
Jack?
And as if that vosn't enough, to spoil our trade and set all our poor
old hearts a breaking,
Mr. Brunel must come to finish us up, poor wretches! vith his horrid
_under_-taking.
Mister B. is a wery ambitious man, that's vot he is, and his work a
wery great bore:
But, thank heav'n! it'll be a long time before his tunnel (whatever his
fame may do) reaches from shore to shore.
I never gets a sight o' nothink good now—beefsteaks, nor anything else
that's nice:
No ingins (except steam ingins), and you may count my ribs (tho' you
can't the ribs of ice).
I did a job for a confectioner t'other day, as vos a trying to larn to
skate,
But his heels tript up right bang, and down he fell on the back of his
pate.
Vell, up I vips him in my arms, and carries him straight off home in a
trice.
I _did_ think I should get a glass of grog for that job, but, says he,
"Von't you take a ice?"
"No, Sir," says I, walking off wery indignant, and looking jest as sour
as sour crout,
"Ven I takes a drop o' liquor I al'ys has it 'varm vith'—I doesn't like
'cold vithout.'"
But it's no use talking, for talking only makes one more hungrier and
more drier:
And the heat of argiment's wery unlike the heat of a good kitchen fire.
I'm as dry as an old boat, vot ain't good for nothink in life but to
knock up and burn;
And so I sees plain enough suicide's the only side on vich I can turn.
Bless you, I'm as hollow as a drum, and as thin as any poor devil of a
church mouse;
So here goes for the fatal plunge—what's a plunge more or less to a man
as hasn't got a _sous_?
Here goes—but, oh, crikey! vhere _am_ I to go to find a drop o' vater
un-froze?
Vell, that's the cuttingest thing of all—to think as a man can't put a
end to his woes
In his own native element, as he vos bred and born to, and lived in,
man and b'y,
Uppards of thirty-six year come next Midsummer (vich it never vill come
again to I).
Vell, I've tuck my leave of the river, and my poor miserable little
funny, so pretty and red:
I shall never shoot Lunnun Bridge no more, so I'll go and shoot myself
instead.
[Illustration:
A CHARITY BALL—Dancing for the Million.
]