Look! look! 'tis the Ale King, so stately and starch, Whose votaries scorn to be sober; He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch: Brown stout is his doublet, he hops in his march, And froths at the mouth in October. His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung; He taps where the housemaid no more is, When lo! at his magical bidding, upsprung A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young, And sported _in loco sororis_. Back, lurid in air, for a second regale, The Cinder King, hot with desire, To Brydges Street hied; but the Monarch of Ale, With uplifted spigot and faucet, and pail, Thus chided the Monarch of Fire: "Vile tyrant, beware of the ferment I brew, I rule the roast here, dash the wig o' me! If, spite of your marriage with Old Drury, you Come here with your tinderbox, courting the New, I'll have you indicted for bigamy!" PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS. BY S. T. C. Ille velut fidis aroana sodalibus olim Credebat libris; neque si male cesserat, usquam Decurrens alio, neque si bene.--HORAT. My pensive public, wherefore look you sad? I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey To carry to the mart her crockery ware, And when that donkey look'd me in the face, His face was sad! and you are sad, my public! Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October Again assembles us in Drury Lane. Long wept my eye to see the timber planks That hid our ruins; many a day I cried, "Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it!" Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve, As along Charles Street I prepared to walk, Just at the corner, by the pastry-cook's, I heard a trowel tick against a brick. I look'd me up, and straight a parapet Uprose at least seven inches o'er the planks. "Joy to thee, Drury!" to myself I said: "He of Blackfriars Road who hymn'd thy downfall In loud hosannahs, and who prophesied That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma, Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee, Has proved a lying prophet." From that hour, As leisure offer'd, close to Mr. Spring's Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders. They had a plan to render less their labours; Workmen in elder times would mount a ladder With hodded heads, but these stretch'd forth a pole From the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulley Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley; To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks Thus freighted, swung securely to the top, And in the empty basket workmen twain Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth. Oh! 'twas a goodly sound to hear the people Who watch'd the work, express their various thoughts! While some believ'd it never would be finish'd, Some on the contrary believ'd it would.