To the Crystal Palace they will go, The Museum and National Gallery too, To Windsor, Aldershot, and Kew, All the foreigners in England. They are going to visit Charing Cross, To see old Charley sit on his horse, Then to Buckingham Palace to have a game, Then off they go to Petticoat Lane, Where life in splendour they will see, Fried fish and liver, and shockerhorsey, Then have a bathe in the river Lea, The foreigners in England. Let us welcome them with a loud huzza, You pretty maids get out of the way, Old Jacky Bull will expenses pay, For the foreigners in England: Here’s the Viceroy from Egypt’s land And Turkey’s Sultan hand-in-hand. If he wants some wives for the ottoman plains He can have all the women in Drury Lane. So all pretty girls in London chaste Go home to your mothers and wash your face, Or perhaps they will collar you round the waist, The foreigners in England. When the foreigners reach their native shore, They may say, we never saw before, Such glorious sights, and we may no more, As we beheld in England. H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London. WHAT SHALL WE DO FOR MEAT! Old England, once upon a time, Was prosperous and gaily, Great changes you shall hear in rhyme, That taking place is daily. A poor man once could keep a pig, There was meat for every glutton, Folks now may eat a parson’s wig, For they’ll get no beef or mutton. The times are queer, and things are dear, Well, it really is alarming; Up and down, country and town, I think we’ll all be starving. Although the times are very queer, Some old women have a way got, To raise themselves a drop of beer. Or a drop of gin in the teapot. If meat was seven shillings a pound, Old Polly, Kit, and Sally, Would find the means to guzzle down, A little cream of the valley. The butchers now, oh dear! oh dear! Declare no meat they can sell, Five thousand is gone to Colney Hatch, And seven thousand to Hanwell. Sixteen jumped in the water-butt, Lamenting they did shiver, Three ship-load sailed down to Gravesend town, And went to sleep in the river. Bullock’s head will be two shillings a pound, And if I’m not mistaken, We shall have to pay a half-a-crown For a slice of rusty bacon. I wonder what they do put in The faggots and the sausages?-- Cold donkeys’ dung, says Biddy Flinn, Candle ends and rotten cabbages. The butchers now are gone to pot, Crying, oh! such times was never, They lay their heads on a greasy block, Saying, we are done for ever. They cannot cry, who’ll buy! who’ll buy! Their marrow bones are aching, For want of beef they seek relief, And will be sent stone breaking.