Then comes the Lord Mayor--he makes it a rule, He rides on the back of an Abyssinian mule; The great Lady Mayoress, if her sight does not fail, She sits on behind, and holds on to his tail. All the old Companies have gone to the wall, No old blokes in livery was there at all; The flags and the banners, as I’m a sinner, Were put in the rag scale to get them a dinner. Now where’s the old coachman with his powdered wig? Who drove the state carriage so noble and big? If I tell you the truth, it will break your heart, They have sold the old coach to make a muck cart, They’re stopping all pleasure, except for the swells, In the course of time, there’ll be no pretty girls; No pleasure for children, but you can let them know, That a thing of the past is the Lord Mayor’s Show. For in the year ’67, how funny you know, There’s a New Streets Act, and there’s no Lord Mayor’s Show. W. GARBUTT. H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London. INTERNATIONAL BOAT RACE. Hark; the bells are merrily ringing, Doodah, doodah, The lads and lasses gaily singing, Oh doodah day. With turban hair, and slender waist, Doodah, doodah! They are off to see the Great Boat Race! Oh! doodah day. They pull with all their might, One must pull it off to day, Through thick and thin, let the best men win, But give them both fair play. Such sights were never seen on land or river, Such wonderful things you will discover The girl of the period--like clothes props.-- Like a stick stuck on the head of a mop! Then a fat old lady bought a barge To see the sight so grand and large, Some one told her it was rotten, So they tarr’d her bows and cork’d her bottom. The next was a skiff, a gent and his daughter Oh Pa’ the boat is making water! They were in a mess, depend upon it, She bailed her out with her plate bonnet. Here they come and there they go, Quite as good as the Lord Mayor’s Show; A scream!--what’s the matter?--that’s something good. A girl’s heels stuck up, and her head in the mud. The Americans, some say, will win it, Look at their move, forty strokes a minute, So you chaps you’d better look to it Just tell me the chap or girl that can do it. On the road some thousand lads and lasses, Singing, laughing and drinking their glasses, With legs as thick as cabbage stumps, Some wearing horns like the handle of a pump. Some of the girls will stop out all night, Just to look at the stars and stripes, Standing on tiptoe, in such a bustle, Just to look at the men’s big muscle.