Here’s a pretty fine business, my MAGOG!!! Where are we a-drifting
to now?
These here tears in my eyes you must twig; I detect the glum gloom
on your brow.
Most natural, MAGOG, _most_ natural! Loyal old giants, like us,
Must be cut to the heart by these times, which they get every year
wus and wus!
It’s Ikybod, MAGOG; I see it a-written all over the shop.
Our glory’s departed, old partner. And where is it going for to
stop?
That Feast of BELSHAZZER weren’t in it for worritting warnings of
woe;
Which our beautiful Annual Banquet will soon not be worth half a
blow.
It’s not half a blow-out as it is, not compared with old glorious
gorges.
I wish, oh I wish, MAGOG mine, we was back in the times of the
GEORGES,
Or even DICK WHITTINGTON’s days, which for Giants was quite good
enough;
But they’ve spoilt all the good things of life with their Science,
and Progress, and stuff.
I see how it’s drifting, dear MAGOG. The Munching House and the
Gildhall.
Did use to be London’s fust pride. Is it so in these days? Not at
all!
Whippersnappers cock snooks at us, MAGOG; A ignerent pert L.C.C.,
To whom Calipash is a mistry, whose soul never loved Calipee,
A feller elected by groundlings, who can’t tell Madeira from Port,
Some sour-faced suburban Dissenter—_he_, MAGOG, may make us his
sport,
Without being popped in the pillory! Proper old punishment that!
As all the _old_ punishments _was_. We’re a-getting too flabby,
that’s flat.
The gallows, the stocks, and the pillory kept rebel rascals in hor,
But now every jumped-up JACK CADE, or WAT TYLER can give us his jor
Hot-and-hot, without fear of brave WALWORTH’s sharp dagger, or
even a shower
Of stones, rotten heggs, and dead cats. Yah! The People has far
too much power
With their wotes, and free speech, and such fudge. Ah! if
GLADSTONE, and ASQUITH, and BURNS,
And a tidy few more of their sort, in the pillory just took their
turns,
Like that rapscallion, DANIEL DEFOE, what a clearance he’d have of
the cads
Who worrit us out of our lives with Reform, and such humbugging
fads!