When the case was in the Court, It caused a deal of bother, Some said her head was hot, She could not tell one from t’other. The Doctor he looked grand, And said censure she did not merit, For the poor dear Lady Was subject to hysterics. Now Lady ----, the dear, As we may understand her, Could play the German flute, The organ and piano. But she oft made a mistake, As some letters to us tell will, She was in a weakly state, Since she has had the measles. Charley said to her one day, As some queer doubts there may be, Do tell me dear, I pray, How about the baby? Then Charley dear, said she, I really have forgot dear, Whether it belongs to me, Or whether to the doctor. This lady’s appetite It really is enormous, But whether wrong or right, The papers will inform us; She is fond of veal and ham, To feed she is a glutton, She got tired of Charley’s lamb, And longed for royal mutton. Now husbands mind I pray, The lesson you have got here, If your wives should go astray, Be sure you call the doctor. Though I mean not to offend, I’ve proved the fact, and said it, That like poor Lady ----, They might be troubled with hysterics. Disley, Printer, 57, High street, St. Giles. BRIGHTON GRAND VOLUNTEER REVIEW. Lads and lasses, blithe and gay, From town and country far away, The young and old will come, they say, To see the grand review, sir There is Polly Pluck and Ginger Blue, For fun they are always right on, Such shaking hands and how-do-you-do With the volunteers from London. Such sights before has never been, Drinking healths in wine and gin, And the pretty girls a winking then At the volunteers of England. There is special trains from every part, Old and young with joyful hearts, With coaches, gigs, and donkey carts, Will drive to the review, sir. The pretty girls will dress so fine, With their frizzly hair all down behind, With a hat and feathers cut a shine When at the grand review, sir. The Cockney lads are fond of fun, When on the downs are strolling, And down the hill in the afternoon The lasses will be rolling. Blow the trumpet, beat the drum, Away with melancholy, Shoulder arms and fire the guns, Let every one be jolly. One young lady of sixty-two, With high-heeled boots and buckles, too, And with a crutch she had to go To see the grand review, sir, She on the hill was pushed about By some great ugly fellow, Her crutch soon broke and she fell down, And she lost her umbrella.