I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane Much criticis'd; they say 'tis vulgar brick-work, A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth. One of the morning papers wish'd that front Cemented like the front in Brydges Street; As it now looks they call it Wyatt's Mermaid, A handsome woman with a fish's tail. White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet Street, The Albion (as its name denotes) is white; Morgan and Saunders' shop for chairs and tables Gleams like a snowball in the setting sun; White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride's in Fleet Street, The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders, Nor white Whitehall is white as Drury's face. Oh, Mr. Whitbread! fie upon you, sir! I think you should have built a colonnade; When tender Beauty, looking for her coach, Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower, And draws the tippet closer round her throat. Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off, And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud Soaks thro' her pale kid slipper. On the morrow She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa Cries, "There you go! this comes of playhouses!" To build no portico is penny wise: Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish! Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theatres! What is the Regency in Tottenham Street, The Royal Amphitheatre of Arts, Astley's Olympic, or the Sans Pareil, Compar'd with thee? Yet when I view thee push'd Back from the narrow street that christen'd thee, I know not why they call thee Drury Lane. Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions, It grieves me much to see live animals Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit, Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig; Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist Of former Drury, imitated life Quite to the life. The elephant in Blue Beard, Stuff'd by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis, As spruce as he who roar'd in Padmanaba. Nought born on earth should die. On hackney stands I reverence the coachman who cries "Gee," And spares the lash. When I behold a spider Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm, Or view a butcher with horn-handle knife Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton, Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick! [_Exit hastily._ DRURY LANE HUSTINGS. A NEW HALFPENNY BALLAD. BY A PIC-NIC POET. This is the very age of promise. To promise is most courtly and fashionable. Performance is a kind of will or testament, which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it.--TIMON OF ATHENS. _To be sung by_ MR. JOHNSTONE _in the character of_ LOONEY M'TWOLTER. I.