Now when the sport it is all done, And the flitch of bacon carried home, Some scores will to the pop-shop run, With bolsters, quilts, and blankets; Coats and waistcoats, gowns and shawls, Shirts, chignons, and parasols, Will have to go to the golden balls, To pay for the spree at Dunmow. So now to finish up my lay, Take my advice, young ladies gay, Get married now without delay, And try for the flitch of bacon; For the Essex lads they are so sly, And you had better mind your eye, Or next year you may have a girl or a boy, Marked with a flitch of bacon! H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London. LAST DYING SPEECH And Farewell to the World OF THE LORD MAYOR’S SHOW, Who suffered the extreme penalty of the law, Saturday, November 9th, 1867. Come one and all, pray listen to my ditty, Good times have gone by,--oh dear what a pity! The procession this year I have to relate, And how on the ninth they will all go in state. They all shake their heads and say it’s no go, It’s the last dying speech of the Lord Mayor’s Show. At half-past eleven, by the word of command, From Guildhall will tumble a big German Band; With mounted police,--to you it is plain-- On their hats stuck a lamp with a portrait of Mayne Old Alderman Gobble with a large Chinese gong, Six girls with six shoelacks stuck on their chignons They set backside before, and so on you will find, And for reins hold the ribbons that hang down behind. There’s the old Lord Mayor stuck on a blind horse Like an old turtle, with his fat legs across; It will make him sore behind if he has a long ride, He has lost the key, or he would creep inside. Then the sword-bearer he will make a start, He sits like a king in an old donkey cart; He sold his hairy cap to make him a muff, And he has broke his sword on the old donkey’s duff. The great City Marshall, he is not much use, He is flying about like a one-legged goose; He is here and he’s there, and he’s off in a crack, You would think he had swallowed the New Streets Act. The poor men in armour are not here to day, Through last year’s exertion they sweated away; They are selling fusees--it’s a very bad trade, And all the poor horses into sausages are made. There’s old Parson Spurgeon, as sly as a fox, On a chair with two sticks, just like a Guy Faux; With tracts in his hand, you soon will him spy, And a dish of fine sprats and a tear in each eye. There’s poor Gog and Magog, so it appears, With a pail in each hand to catch their own tears, They both weep in anguish and been heard to say The days of our pastime are faded away.