_He._ Hot baked sheep’s head and taters hot,
_She._ We’ll keep a school of high degree,
_He._ And learn the children A. B. C,
_She._ We’ll salt fat bacon, butter and lard,
_He._ And great long songs for a penny a yard,
_She._ I’ll sell potash, starch and blues,
_He._ And I’ll go sweeping the chimney flues.
_She._ I’ll make bustles and lady’s frills,
_He._ And I’ll sell mussels and pickled eels,
_She._ We’ll deal in razors, strops and hones,
_He._ And I’ll go out a picking up bones,
_She._ We’ll deal in paper, take in the news,
_He._ And I’ll go a cobbling ladies’ shoes,
_Both._ {And we’ll learn the ladies all complete,
{To dance the Polka at threepence a week.
_She._ We’ll deal in lollipops, sugar and figs,
_He._ We’ll buy a donkey, ducks hens and pigs,
_She._ We’ll have a mangle, and buy old clothes,
_He._ And I’ll make salve for the ladies’ toes.
_She._ We’ll deal in pickled cabbage and eggs,
_He._ And make tin dishes and wooden legs.
_She._ We’ll deal in sausages, tripe and lard,
_He._ And if we can’t live, ’twill be devilish hard.
_She._ We’ll deal in Oils, sperm, train and neat,
_He._ And I’ll make stockings for children’s feet,
_She._ We will sell hot muffins and home baked bread,
_He._ Pins and needles, cotton and thread.
_She._ We’ll grind old razors, scissors and knives,
_He._ And keep lodgings for single men and their wives,
_She._ We’ll deal in lobsters, shrimps and sprats,
_He._ And I’ll sell meat for the ladies’ cats.
_She._ We’ll deal in fish, fresh, boiled, and fried,
_He._ And let out donkeys a penny a ride,
_She._ I will the ladies fortune tell,
_He._ And I’ll cry, Old umbrellas to sell,
_She._ We will take in the blooming ladies bright,
_He._ And sleep in the garret at threepence a night,
_She._ I’ll sing, Come buy my Crockery ware,
_He._ And I’ll go dressing the ladies hair.
_She._ We’ll sell ripe Cherries, pea soup and milk,
_He._ Oranges, lemons and pickled wilks,
_She._ Wooden rolling-pins at the Royal Exchange,
_He._ And if we can’t get on we may think it strange,
(The chorus make up the last four lines of this verse.)
_THE CRIES OF LONDON._
[Illustration]
OH! what fun is to be seen in town every day,
There is something to pass dull care away,
Some sort of a cry you are sure for to meet,
In winter and summer as the time of year flies,
You will find in London a melody of cries.[16]
_Chorus._
It’s fun for to hear, as you walk up and down,
The fashionable cries of great London town.
A strong deal table to be sold to night,
Penny a lot oysters, come run, fetch a light,
Here’s good eating apples, a penny the lot,
Now who’ll buy a cap or a bonnet box;
Clothes pegs, or lines, buy a clothes prop,
Here’s fine Cauliflowers, who’ll buy a Mop?
Live fleas with a gold chain round their neck,
Here’s fine young peas sixpence a peck,
Songs three yards a penny, Oh! what a lie!
For half of them are not there, what they do cry.
Fine pickled salmon, warranted sound,
And good salt cod, a penny a pound.
Here’s the last dying speech, I forgot to tell,
Fine Cabbage plants, young lambs to sell,
Do you want any matches, ma’m, to day,
Buy a pit ticket, or a bill of the play,
Good strong laces, a halfpenny each,
Two bunches a penny, spring watercress.
Clothes, sale clothes the Jews do cry,
Mutton, Apple, Beef, all hot, toss or buy,
Dust O, dust, and sweep soot O,
Fine pickled eels feet, now here’s a go,
Buy a bird cage, fine summer cabbage,
Walk up now, and see the Indian savage.
Here’s lily white mussels, a penny a quart,
Fine ripe plums, now the blooming sort,
Penny a head celery, a good woman’s cap,
Buy a brush, a hair broom, or a door mat,
Here are mild red herrings, a halfpenny each,
Come move on there, says the New Police.
Wood three bundles a penny, all dry deal,
Now who’ll buy a good flint and steel,
Buy a walking stick, a good ash stump,
Hearth stones, pretty maids, a penny a lump,
Fine mackerel, penny a plateful, sprats,
Dog’s meat, ma’am, for to feed your cats.
Twelve a penny walnuts, crack and try em,
Fine barcelonies, now who’ll buy em?
Here are good mealy potatoes from Paddy’s land,
Good burning turf and lily white sand,
I think, good friends, I have kept you too long,
The next cry is, now who’ll buy my song.
THE Modern Police is the outcome of the old Watch, which, always
inefficient, had become so much so, as to necessitate its
abolition, and, under the auspices of Sir Robert Peel[17] the “New
Police,” as they were called, were formed, and they commenced their
duties on September 29, 1829. Until a very recent time they wore
swallow-tailed coats and tall hats, and were the subjects of
good-humoured witticisms from all. There is no doubt but that the
change of costume to the tunic and helmet has induced a better
class of men to join the force, and has raised its standard of
efficiency immensely. Whitaker for 1888 gives the number of the
Metropolitan Police as 13,855.
_THE HONEST POLICEMAN OF MITCHAM._
SOME Policemen are right honest men,
And some we know are gluttons,
Some cookey darling courting goes,
To taste her roasted mutton:
Some can twirl the rolling-pin
If girls should them draw nigh, sir,
Some are fond of rabbit skins,
And some of rabbit pie, sir.
[Illustration]
A house the Sergeant had to keep,
At least for to look after,
He was a guardian of the peace,
And had a wife and daughter.
The Sergeant in the parlour lived,
And his lady in the kitchen,
And such a game they carried on,
Good lack a day, at Mitcham.
Such a lot of property was there,
Belonging to Captain Higging,
And so it seems the Sergeant and
His lady went a prigging.
They took the sofas and the beds,
The blankets and the cradles,
The silver plate, the chamber mug,
Chairs and mahogany tables.
Two hundred sovereigns worth of goods,
Pianoforte and shawls, sir,
And then for safety placed them in
The hands of Uncle Balls, Sir.
The neighbours say they had as much
As they could well desire,
And then to hide the wicked deed,
They set the place on fire.
The Captain of his rights,
They did so nicely fleece him,
But great suspicion fell upon
The Sergeant of Policemen.
The Sergeant thought to cut his stick,
And bolt across the water,
But Justice the Policeman caught,
His honest wife and daughter.
Alas! poor Bob has gone to quod,
And that I know won’t suit him,
They know him well at Mitcham, and
In Merton, and in Tooting.
For soon he will his trial take,
And hard bull beef be munching,
He’ll lose his lantern, coat and cape,
And curse his wooden truncheon.
To steal another’s goods his hands,
And fingers were a itching
And he will run and look so blue,
About the job at Mitcham.
Poor Sergeant Bob has gone to quod
A place that does not suit him,
They know him well at Merton round,
In Mitcham and in Tooting.
WHEN the present Police force was first organized it was composed
of men decidedly inferior in physique, intelligence, and education,
to those constables whose protection we now enjoy. They were made
the butt of every kind of coarse witticism, and were generally
addressed by some slang name. Above all they were chaffed for their
supposed partiality for the society of Cooks, and I reproduce one
ballad bearing on this subject, a parody of the song of “Katty
Darling.”
_COOKEY DARLING._
_I’m waiting at the airey, Cookey, darling,
Your fire brims brightly, I can see:
Then hasten to your peeler, Cookey, darling,
For you know, my love, I’m waiting for thee._[18]
You know that ’twas last night you gave me
Only half a leg of mutton and a goose,
Then hasten to your peeler, Cookey darling,
Or on Sunday I shan’t be of any use.
Cookey, stunning Cookey!
I’m waiting at the airey, Cookey, darling,
Then bring me up something good to eat,
Some lush for my stomach to be warming,
And the grub I’ll put away on my beat.
I can see wine, too, on the table,
Sent down because it was not bright,
To drink it, Cookey, you know I am able,
My love, you know, to put it out of sight.
Cookey, stunning Cookey!
I can see pies and puddings, Cookey darling,
Veal, ham, and every thing so nice,
I’m sure I shall go mad, Cookey darling,
If off that beef I haven’t a two pound slice.
But I hear the sergeant coming,
Full well I know his power,
Then get the grub ready, Cookey darling,
And I’ll be back in half an hour.
Cookey, stunning Cookey!
_I SHOULD LIKE TO BE A POLICEMAN._
SOME folks may talk about a trade,
And the joys that from it spring, Sirs,
And after you my words have weighed,
You’ll say it’s no such thing, Sirs.
Though at me you may jeer and laugh,
My joys think to decrease, man,
But I mean to say, (and I do not chaff,)
I should like to be a policeman.
_Chorus._
Taking up and knocking down,
Your noise and bother cease, man,
O, won’t I come it jolly brown,
When I’m a new Policeman.
Of the boys, I’d be the terror, mind,
The fruit stalls, too, I’d sell ’em,
And disturbance of every kind,
I with my staff would quell ’em,
A “charge” would be as good as pelf,
My pleasures ’twould increase, man,
For I’d make the “charges” up myself,
When I’m a new Policeman.
To the kitchen maids like wax I’d stick,
And tho’ I’m not a glutton,
(The thoughts on’t makes me my chops lick)
Oh, I likes a bit of mutton.
When in my toggery I’m arrayed,
From me there’s no release, man,
The boldest of men would be afraid,
If I was a new Policeman.
A drunken man’s a chance I’d hail,
It would my ear delight, Sir,
To search him well I would not fail,
For right is naught to might, Sir.
I’d turn his pockets inside out,
And quickly would him flay, man,
And who would dare to harbour doubt,
Against a new Policeman.
The cracksmen too, should tip to me,
Or else I would soon lag ’em,
But if they did, I should not see,
That is I should not “stag” ’em.
And, if amusement I should lack,
Tho’ I’m one that likes the peace, man,
A pate or two, I’d surely crack,
I should like to be a Policeman.
The prospect does me much delight,
I mount on wings of joy, Sir,
It does to wealth and fame invite,
And pleasure without alloy, Sir,
When I’m established in the force,
I’ll have a bob a piece, man,
From lushy swells, or I’ll lock ’em up,
I should like to be a Policeman.
THIS was a famous fight between these two redoubtable heroes,
famous even in the bad old times of the Ring. Caunt was a man of
gigantic height who kept a somewhat disreputable public-house in
St. Martin’s Lane, into which, in my young days, it was hardly safe
to enter. A fire occurred there, and some of his children were
burnt. William Thompson, _alias_ Bendigo, was a native of
Nottingham, and was a professional pugilist from his twenty-first
year of age.
_BENDIGO, CHAMPION OF ENGLAND._
(_A New Song on the Great Fight between Bendigo and Caunt, for the
Belt and £400, which took place at Witchwood, on Tuesday September
9th 1845._)
YE ranting lads, and sporting blades, come listen to my song,
I’m sure that it will please you well, and will not keep you long.
Concerning the great milling match that lately has been fought,
Between great Caunt and Bendigo, two lads of the right sort.
_Chorus._
So we’ll drink success to Bendigo, who showed such gallant play,
For by his skill, he won the mill, and bore the prize away.
On the ninth day of September, eighteen hundred, forty five,
To Witchwood for to see the fight, the sporting coves did drive,
While some did laugh, and some did chaff, and of their man did vaunt,
Some bet their ten on Bendigo, and some on giant
Caunt.
And when the ground was ready, both those champions quickly peeled,
Two braver men on England’s ground did never take the field,
The fancy swore they were top mark,--an honour to the ring,
Two stouter hearts had never met, since Langan and Tom Spring.
Both men shook hands, and the prize belt, it straightway was brought in,
There let it hang says Bendigo, till the best man does win,
That won’t be little Bendigo, then Caunt he did reply,
For I’ll belt your hide till you’re satisfied, then at him he did fly.
Is that the way? says Bendigo, here, take it back again,
He made a job of poor Caunt’s nob, and hammered it amain.
This furious work soon drew the cork of Caunt’s poor claret bottle,
While Caunt returned the compliment, made Bendi’s ribs to rattle.
Twenty four rounds these heroes fought, none could
tell which was the best,
But Bendigo in the next round, struck Caunt on the left breast.
Which made him stagger round the ring, and fall upon the ground,
Says Bendigo, I’ll have the belt, and the four hundred pound.
But Caunt did boldly come again, and showed some gallant play,
Yet Bendigo would strike a blow, and quickly get away.
Until in round the eighty fourth, he gave some ugly blows,
Which left his mark on the staring part, and fairly spoilt Caunt’s nose.
Eighty eight rounds were fought, when Caunt he could not rise,
And all declared the Bendy cock had fairly won the prize.
The Tipton Slasher now may come, but soon he’ll get to know,
That he was not quite big enough to wollop Bendigo.
THIS fight scarcely comes within the scope of this work, but I
introduce it, because it was supposed to be the last of
Prizefighting. Unfortunately, the brutal sport has been revived,
but it can never attain the dimensions and importance it enjoyed
during the latter part of the reign of George III. and the whole of
that of George IV. Gully was page to that monarch and M.P. for
Pontefract, and Jackson was a gentleman, after his kind.
Sayers was of Irish extraction, though born at Brighton. Heenan’s
parents were also Irish, although America was the place of his
birth. The fight between these two took place on April 17, 1860,
near Farnborough. They fought thirty-seven rounds in two hours and
twenty minutes. Sayers was all but helpless, and Heenan, although
full of fight--indeed, he ran _amuck_ of every body at last--was
blind, when the police and spectators broke into the ring, and a
more disgraceful scene was never witnessed, even at a prize-fight.
Many noblemen and Members of Parliament attended this fight; in
fact, many of the latter made a subscription in Sayers’ behalf, as
also did the Members of Lloyd’s, the Stock Exchange, and the
brokers in Mark Lane--clogged, however, with the condition that he
should fight no more. Altogether over three thousand pounds were
subscribed and invested for the benefit of his children, he
receiving the interest for life. He became partner and afterwards
proprietor of Howe’s and Cushing’s Circus--at which he lost all the
money he had. He drank fearfully, and shortly afterwards died of
consumption, aged thirty-nine. His tomb may be seen in Highgate
Cemetery.
_THE BOLD IRISH YANKEY BENICIA BOY._
ATTEND, you sons of Erin, and listen with delight,
To a ditty, ’tis concerning the great and glorious fight,
On the seventeenth of April, when thousands went with joy,
To see the English champion, and the bold Benicia boy.
_Chorus._
He is young, bold and powerful, no care does him annoy,
He can boldly stand ’gainst any man, and fib away with joy;
And he’ll beat the English champion, will the bold Benicia boy.
His father, an Irishman, from the King’s County came,
His son is a bold Benicia boy, young Heenan is his name,
The British ring, he did step in, and came up to the scratch,
When Sayers, the English champion, found that he’d got his match.
It was early in the morning, before the cock did crow,
Unto the scene of action these gallant lads did go.
Both men did fight most manfully, to win each one did try,
But they both appeared determined to conquer or to die.
At seven in the morning both men were on the ground,
Heenan floored the gallant champion in nearly every round,
The claret flew in torrents,--each other they did fib,
There’s never been such a battle since the days of old Tom Cribb.
They two hours and six minutes fought--each proved himself a man,
And neither of them would give in while he’d a leg to stand,
But the fight was all in favour of the brave Benicia boy,
When the bobbies bolted in the ring, and did his hopes destroy.
Tom Sayers said he soon would lick the Yankee doodle doo,
But Tom found out at Farnborough, he’d have his work to do.
I’ll bet a pound to half a crown, and stake it all myself,
If they fight again, the Yankee boy, will carry off the belt.
When Heenan was in Derbyshire, preparing for the fight,
They hunted him, like bloodhounds, in the middle of the night.
But he was nothing daunted, but to the ring did fly,
Determined that he’d conquer, gain the victory, or die.
There never were two better men, and none could be more game,
They are both two gallant heroes of honour and of fame.
Then fill a flowing bumper, and jovially drink their health,
May the best man win and conquer, and carry off the belt.
When Heenan came to England, far from a distant land,
They said he was a fool to come, to face an Englishman,
But they were all mistaken when they saw the glorious battle,
Heenan cooked the champion’s bacon, and made his daylights rattle.
OF course, it was only in the nature and fitness of things that
Henry Russell’s extremely popular song, “I’m Afloat,” should be
parodied, and of all that I remember, I think the following was
most sung in the streets. The present _Cad_, or ’_Arry_, is bad
enough in all conscience, but the _Gent_ of those days was worse.
How Albert Smith did scarify him!
[Illustration]
_I’M A GENT._
I’M a Gent, I’m a Gent, I’m a Gent ready made,
I roam through the Quadrant and Lowther Arcade,
I’m a registered swell from my head to my toe,
I wear a moustache, and a light paletot.
I’ve a cane in my hand, and a glass in my eye,
And I wink at the girls, demme! as they go by,
Then lor! how they giggle to win my regards,
And I hear them all say--He’s a gent in the Guards.
I’m a Gent, I’m a Gent, in the Regent Street style,
Examine my wesket, and look at my tile,
There are gents, I dare say, who are handsomer far,
But none who can puff with such ease, a cigar.
I can sing a flash song, I can play on the horn,
I like Sherry Cobblers, I’m fond of Cremorne,
I love the Cellarius,[19] the Polka[20] I dance,
And I’m rather attached to a party from France.
This gal I adore is a creature divine,
Though devilishly partial to lobsters and wine,
She was struck with my figure--and caught--with a hook,
For I took her to visit my uncle the duke.
LOUIS ANTOINE JULLIEN was born at Sisteron, Basses Alpes, April 23,
1812. His father was a band-master, hence probably his love of
music. He knew well how to cater for a popular taste, and to him we
owe not only the Promenade Concerts, which have brought good music
into the amusements of the people, but a vast improvement in the
English orchestra. His band was the best of its time; indeed, he
spared no expense to procure the very best instrumental and vocal
performers. He died March 14, 1860. As a composer, dance music was
his great forte, and he was the first to seize on the Polka, which
was introduced into England about 1844. This dance became an
absolute _furore_. Everything was Polka--Polka jackets, bonnets,
cigars, etc. In fact, as one popular song ran--
“Don’t you dance the Polka?
Won’t you dance the Polka?
Joys of earth are little worth,
If you don’t dance the Polka.”
_JULLIEN’S GRAND POLKA._
OH! sure the world is all run mad,
The lean, the fat, the gay, the sad,--
All swear such pleasure they never had,
Till they did learn the Polka.
_Chorus._
First cock up your right leg so,
Balance on your left great toe,
Stamp your heels and off you go,
To the original Polka. Oh!
There’s Mrs. Tibbs the tailor’s wife,
With Mother Briggs is sore at strife,
As if the first and last of life,
Was but to learn the Polka.
Quadrilles and Waltzes all give way,
For Jullien’s Polkas bear the sway,
The chimney sweeps, on the first of May,
Do in London dance the Polka.
If a pretty girl you chance to meet,
With sparkling eyes and rosy cheek,
She’ll say, young man we’ll have a treat,
If you can dance the Polka.
A lady who lives in this town,
Went and bought a Polka gown,
And for the same she gave five pound
All for to dance the Polka.
But going to the ball one night,
On the way she got a dreadful fright,
She tumbled down, and ruined quite,
The gown to dance the Polka.
A Frenchman he has arrived from France
To teach the English how to dance,
And fill his pocket,--“what a chance”--
By gammoning the Polka.
Professors swarm in every street,
’Tis ground on barrel organs sweet,
And every friend you chance to meet,
Asks if you dance the Polka.
Then over Fanny Ellsler came,
Brilliant with trans-Atlantic fame,
Says she I’m German by my name,
So best I know the Polka.
And the row de dow she danced,
And in short clothes and red heels pranced,
And, as she skipped, her red heels glanced
In the Bohemian Polka.
But now my song is near its close,
A secret, now, I will disclose,
Don’t tell, for it’s beneath the rose,
A humbug is the Polka.
Then heigh for humbug France or Spain,
Who brings back our old steps again,
Which John Bull will applaud amain
Just as he does the Polka.
[Illustration]
A “HOY” was a one-masted vessel, sometimes with a boom to the
mainsail, and sometimes not; rigged very much like a cutter. They
are said to have taken their name from being hailed (“Ahoy”) to
stop to take in passengers. The good people of that date were
rather given to stay at home, or not go farther seawards than
Gravesend. Ramsgate and Margate were long voyages, and in truth
they were so sometimes; in rough weather they were sometimes two
days or more making the passage. But there were other dangers, vide
_Drakard’s Paper_, October 3, 1813:--“The _British Queen_, Margate
Hoy, detained full of passengers, for having accidentally had
communication with a vessel performing quarantine, has been since
released by orders from the Admiralty. The distresses of the
passengers partook of the serio-comic: at first provisions were
very scanty, and they had no prospect but seven weeks of durance.
This to the trippers to the seaside for a week would have been a
serious affair.”
_MARGATE HOY._
NOW’S the season for laughing and jollity,
Crowding together, all nations and quality,
Margate, a hoi, as I halloa cry,
All come on board while the sea breezes blow.[21]
Swift as an arrow from bow flies to target,
Or packet from dear little Dublin to Parkgate,
I’ll waft you all safe from London to Margate,
And whistle a wind as we cheerily go.
Bucks who hunt fashion like quick scented mousers,
Leave town, it exhibits no sport for ye now, sirs,
So pull off your boots, and put on your trousers,
To join the gay throng where the sea breezes blow.
Pretty men milliners, fresh water sailors,
Smart, ’prentices, aldermen, actors, and tailors,
Let me and old ocean a while be your jailors,
I’ll sing, as he rocks, while you cheerily go.
_Now’s the season, etc._
_CRYSTAL PALACE._
BRITANNIA’S sons an attentive ear
One moment lend to me,
Whether tillers of our fruitful soil,
Or lords of high degree.
Mechanic too and artizan,
Old England’s pride and boast,
Whose wondrous skill has spread around
Far, far from Britain’s coast.
_Chorus._
_For the great world’s Exhibition,
Let’s shout with loud huzza,
All Nations never can forget
The glorious First of May._
From every quarter of the Globe
They come across the sea,
And to the Crystal Palace
The wonders for to see;
Raised by the handwork of men
Born on British ground
A Challenge to the universe
It’s equal to be found.
Each friendly nation in the world,
Have their assistance lent,
And to this Exhibition
Have their productions sent;
And with honest zeal and ardour,
With pleasure do repair,
With hands outstretched and gait erect,
To the world’s great National Fair.
The sons of England and France,
And America likewise,
With other nations to contend
To bear away the prize.
With pride depicted in their eyes,
View the offspring of their hand,
Oh, surely England’s greatest wealth
Is an honest working man.
It is a glorious sight to see
So many thousands meet,
Not heeding creed or country,
Each other friendly greet.
Like Children of one mighty Sire
May that sacred tie ne’er cease
May the blood-stained sword of war give way
To the olive branch of peace.
But--hark--the trumpets flourish,
Victoria does approach,
That she may be long spared to us
Shall be our reigning toast.
I trust each heart it will respond,
To what I now propose.
Good will and plenty to her friends,
And confusion to her foes.
Great praise is due to Albert,
For the good that he has done,
May others follow in his steps
The work he has begun,
Then let us all with one accord,
His name give with three cheers,
Shout Huzza for the Crystal Palace,
And the World’s Great National Fair.
[Illustration]
_SHEEP’S EYES FOR EVER._[22]
SAID Hodge, one day, to his son Ned,
“Good news for Neddy,--
I think it’s time that thou should’st wed;”
“Woat’s coming now?” thought Neddy.
“Old age, thou see’st, creeps on apace,
Old Time has led me a pretty long chace,
And thou should’st wed to keep up our race.”
“We’ll au’ll do what au con,” says Neddy.