Irish ladies have feet very pretty,

English ladies have their's very small;
French ladies' are dressish and natty,
Chinese ladies have no feet at all.
They must not taste whiskey in Turkey,
And the Frenchmen make elegant bows;
In London they drink Irish whiskey,
And have milk from the Alderney cows.

In China they folks call to prayers,

With the sound of a great Chinese gong;
They don't seem to have any Lord Mayors,
So I'll put an end to my song.

I've been welcom'd by wise and by witty men,
In all countries to which I've been hurl'd;
And now I've become quite a citizen,

Or a cosmopolite of the world.

I've travell'd from one end to t'other
Of this globe, which is round as a ball;
Where one country's as good as another,
But old Ireland is better than all.

MADAM FIG'S GALA.

CHARLES DIBDIN the Younger.] [Tune-" Drops of Brandy."
I'ZE a Yorkshireman just come to town,
And my coming to town were a gay day;
Dame Fortune has here set me down,

Waiting-gentleman to a fine lady ;

And madam gives galas and routs,

While her treats of the town are the talk sheer,

But nought that I'ze seed here abouts

Equals one that was given i' Yorkshire.

Rumpti, &c.

Johnny Fig was a green and white grocer,
In business as brisk as an eel, sir,

None than John to the shop could stick closer,
But his wife thought it quite ungenteel, sir;

Her neighbours resolv'd to cut out,
And astonish the rustic parishioners;
So invited 'em all to a rout,

And ax'd all the village musicianers.

The company met gay as larks,

Rumpti, &c.

Drawn forth all as fine as blown roses; The concert commenc'd with the clerk,

Who chanted the "Vicar and Moses ;" The barber sung "Gall'ry of Wigs," sir; The gemmen all said 'twas the dandy, While the ladies encor'd Johnny Fig, sir, Who volunteer'd "Drops of Brandy.'

The baker he sang a good batch,

Rumpti, &c.

While the lawyer, for harmony willing,
With the bailiff he join'd in a catch,

And the notes of the butcher were killing;
The wheelwright he put in his spoke,
The schoolmaster flogg'd on with furor,
The coalman he play'd the "Black Joke,"
And the fishwoman roar'd a bravura.

To strike the assembly with wonder,

Rumpti, &c.

The Miss Screams a quintette, loud as Boreas Sung, and wak'd farmer Thrasher's dog, Thunder, Who, jumping up, join'd in the chorus.

A donkey, the melody marking,

Popp'd in, too, which made a wag say, sir, "Attend to the rector of Barking's

Duet with the vicar of Bray, sir."

Rumpti, &c.

A brine-tub, half full of beef salted,
Madam Fig had trick'd out as a seat, sir,
Where the tailor to sing was exalted,

But the covering crack'd under his feet, sir;

Snip was sous'd in the brine, but soon rising,
He bawl'd, while they laugh'd at his grief, sir,
Is't a matter so monstrous surprising
To see pickled-cabbage with beef, sir?

Rumpti, &c.

To a ball, then, the concert gave way,
And for dancing no souls could be riper;
So struck up the "Devil to Pay,"
But Johnny Fig paid the piper;
The best thing came after the ball,
For to finish the whole with perfection,
Madam Fig ax'd the gentlefolks all
To sup off a cold collection.

Rumpti, &c.

I'LL WRITE TO THE "TIMES."

G. BENNETT.]

[Tune-"Irish Washerwoman."

"OH, I'll write to the Times, and at once for redress,

For it has such a vast circulation;

In its elegant columns my case I'll express,
And appeal to the whole British nation."
Thus saith my litigious old friend, Dr. Rudge,
In a long-pending action nonsuited,

Through the stolid obtuseness of counsel and judge,
Who might the old thing have confuted.

"Oh, I'll write to the Times, and at once for redress,

For it has such a vast circulation;

In its elegant columns my case I'll express,
And appeal to the whole British nation."

Says Paterfamilias, "Ill write to the Times;
These trains they all need supervision;

We're a minute too late by the three-quarter chimes;
Ah! this is their railway precision !"

There's a traveller who's thundering the platform

along,

With a porter, fermenting and working—

"Where's my box? 'tis a relic-it came from Hong Kong,

So produce it-no shuffling or shirking—

Or, I'll write to the Times," &c.

Fitzguard, the right honourable, solemnly reels
From his club about two in the morning,
Where cabby an hour has stood cooling his heels
With the rain-pouring clouds for an awning.

"You'll drive-you know where." They arrive there

all right.

"What's the fare?"

honour.

That's for time too."

you to-night:

"Three and sixpence, your

"For time? Well, I'll pay

What's your badge?" "99. Tom O'Connor !"
Oh, I'll write to the Times," &c.

There's a Frenchman comes over; he finds an hotel,
Where all is recherché and splendid,

He partakes of the best, with a gusto and zest,
At the table d'hôte, lordlike attended.
"Je suis ravi, mes amis. I am so delight,

Ho garçon! une semaine I am staying.'
But the bill, ah, the bill, he is madden'd outright,
And "Mon Dieu !" he exclaims, while he's paying,
"I vill write to de Times," &c.

Lawyer Deeds, who aspires to high place in his ward,
And has views most profound and extensive,
Caused a rupture last week at the Union Board,
Through some plans that were wildly expensive;
In his zeal for municipal progress, he cried,
"It is not for myself, but the City;

But you doubt, you oppose, you condemn, you deride,
While your chairman insults me with pity!

But, I'll write to the Times," &c.

Mrs. White, the immaculate; she, who could ne'er
Even think without tears of her neighbours,
Return'd from the Dorcas Committee to hear
Mrs. Brown had made light of her labours;
Had questioned her motives, had doubted her heart,
And of self-aggrandisement had hinted ;

So her spirit was roused; "I will take my own part;
The report and the facts shall be printed,

And I'll write to the Times," &c.

Sairey Gamp, coming home from her "month" into town,

For a 'bus half-an-hour is in waiting;

So she ties down her bonnet and pins up her gown,
While she gives all around her a rating:

"Here's a plight, with Saint Vipers's dance in my bones,

And the sleet and the wind coming eastways; What-'How's your poor feet?' why as cold as the stones,

But I'll make you remember, or leastways

I'll write to the Times," &c.

I've a bachelor friend has a seat in St. Jude's,
He's not one of your crabs or refractories;
But he's warp'd from his regular tenses and moods
By crinoline, hoops, and phylacteries.

A small pew he shares with the two sisters Binks,
He shares, too, a part of their dresses,

More than's pleasant, or graceful, or decent he thinks,
And each Sunday his ire thus expresses-

JOHN POTTER.]

"I will write to the Times," &c.

BILER BROWN.

[Tune-"Ben the Carpenter."

IN Camden Town dwelt Biler Brown,

A happy railway stoker;

He got his bread by heating coke
And flourishing a poker.