The Oxford lads look good and clever, Go it, lads, now or never! We know what you can do if you like Just keep down the stars and stripes. Mr Caudle and family went on the water, Twelve in family, sons and daughters; The boat went down, by hook or by crook, They pulled them out with a boat hook. Such a glorious sight was never seen, But we did not expect to see the Queen; The Prince rode in a donkey cart, He wack’d the moke till he made him start. Success to the Havard, do the best they can And the Oxford too and every man, Let every one keep his place, No matter to us who wins the race. To get lodging, oh, such a bother, They all pig in with one another, They all lay down all of a lump, One pillows his head on another’s rump. So rolling home so tight, So happy and so gay, Success to all rowing men,-- May the best men win the day. H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London. ENGLISH LADIES’ NEW FASHIONED PETTICOATS. [Illustration] Search all the world over I vow and declare, With the ladies of England there’s none can compare With the sleeves on their arms like a coal-porter’s sack, Their cockleshell bonnets and Jack Sheppard hats. The ladies hooped petticoats dragging around, Just cover a mile and three-quarters of ground. Oh, I must have a husband young Jenny did say, I will be in the fashion so buxom and gay, With a bustle before and another behind, And under my trousers a big crinoline. When I’m married, my husband upon me will doat, Looking so fine in a hooped petticoat. To have one, I’ll just go a week without grub, Or else knock out the staves of our big washing-tub. There was an old lady went down through the Strand, She was linked in the arms of a dashing young man, Her hooped petticoat caught a coal-heaver’s clothes. Down he went like a donkey wop bang on his nose. The lasses that wander the streets in the dark, Swear they cannot get custom unless they’re smart, If their skin is as black as a Welch Billy Goat, They must have a wonderful hooped petticoat. An old farmer’s wife an hooped petticoat wore, ’Twas as wide as an haystack behind and before, The wind caught the bottom as you may suppose, Then up in the clouds in a moment she goes. I knew a young milkmaid at old Farmer Days, She sold her frock and trousers, her stockings and stays, From her master’s beer barrel, a hoop then she took, And she had it sown round her new red petticoat. She got up one morning, so buxom and fine, She quickly went folding her new crinoline, She holloaed and swore such a terrible oath, For the old cow had calved in her hooped petticoat.