Did none attempt, before he fell, To succour one they loved so well? Yes, Higginbottom did aspire (His fireman's soul was all on fire) His brother chief to save; But ah! his reckless generous ire Served but to share his grave! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Thro' fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before. But sulphury stench and boiling drench, Destroying sight, o'erwhelm'd him quite, He sunk to rise no more. Still o'er his head, while fate he braved, His whizzing water-pipe he waved; "Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps, You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps, Why are you in such doleful dumps? A fireman and afraid of bumps! What are they fear'd on? fools! 'od rot 'em!" Were the last words of Higginbottom. The Revival. Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom, And toil rebuilds what fires consume! Eat we and drink we, be our ditty, "Joy to the managing committee." Eat we and drink we, join to rum Roast beef and pudding of the plum; Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come, With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, For this is Drury's gay day: Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops, And buy, to glad thy smiling chops, Crisp parliament with lollipops, And fingers of the lady. Didst mark, how toil'd the busy train From morn to eve, till Drury Lane Leap'd like a roebuck from the plain? Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again, And nimble workmen trod; To realize bold Wyatt's plan Rush'd many a howling Irishman, Loud clatter'd many a porter can, And many a ragamuffin clan, With trowel and with hod. Drury revives! her rounded pate Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate; She "wings the midway air" elate, As magpie, crow, or chough; White paint her modish visage smears, Yellow and pointed are her ears, No pendant portico appears Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears Have cut the bauble off. Yes, she exalts her stately head, And, but that solid bulk outspread, Opposed you on your onward tread, And posts and pillars warranted That all was true that Wyatt said, You might have deem'd her walls so thick, Were not composed of stone or brick, But all a phantom, all a trick, Of brain disturb'd and fancy-sick, So high she soars, so vast, so quick. JOHNSON'S GHOST. _Ghost of_ DR. JOHNSON _rises from trap-door P.S. and Ghost of_ BOSWELL, _from trap-door O.P. The latter bows respectfully to the House, and obsequiously to the Doctor's Ghost, and retires_. _Doctor's Ghost loquitur._