_Ghost._ Let Gertrude sup the poisoned cup, no more I'll be an actor in Such sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing. _Macheath._ I'll Polly it, and folly it, and dance it quite the dandy O, But as for tunes I have but one, and that is "Drops of Brandy O." _Omnes._ Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza! _Juliet._ I'm Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of hellebore, A Hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall. _Friar._ And I am the friar who so corpulent a belly bore. _Apothecary._ And that is why poor skinny I have none at all. _Romeo._ I'm the resurrection man of buried bodies amorous. _Falstaff._ I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous, For though my paunch is round and staunch, I ne'er begin to fill it ere I Feel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military. _Omnes._ Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza! [_Exeunt dancing._ ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. (1825.) ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. THE AERONAUT. Up with me!--up with me into the sky!-- WORDSWORTH--ON A LARK: I. Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, Their meaner flights pursue, Let us cast off the foolish ties That bind us to the earth, and rise And take a bird's-eye view! II. A few more whiffs of my cigar And then, in Fancy's airy car, Have with thee for the skies: How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'd Hath borne me from this little world, And all that in it lies! III. Away!--away!--the bubble fills-- Farewell to earth and all its hills!-- We seem to cut the wind!-- So high we mount, so swift we go, The chimney-tops are far below, The Eagle's left behind! IV. Ah me! my brain begins to swim!-- The world is growing rather dim; The steeples and the trees-- My wife is getting very small! I cannot see my babe at all!-- The Dollond, if you please!-- V. Do, Graham, let me have a quiz, Lord! what a Lilliput it is, That little world of Mogg's!-- Are those the London Docks?--that channel, The mighty Thames?--a proper kennel For that small Isle of Dogs! VI. What is that seeming tea-urn there! That fairy dome, St. Paul's!--I swear, Wren must have been a wren!-- And that small stripe?--it cannot be The City Road!--Good lack? to see The little ways of men! VII. Little, indeed!--my eyeballs ache To find a turnpike. I must take Their tolls upon my trust!-- And where is mortal labour gone? Look, Graham, for a little stone MacAdamized to dust! VIII.