“There’s a good deal to be said against this age; and there’s no abuse which the past don’t deserve! The past! gentlemen, it did for our grandmothers. The present! it does for our fathers. But we, gentlemen--we who possess young and ardent minds----” “Give us your song!” cried a voice. “We, gentlemen--we, the young blood of this great nation--we,” cried the orator, swinging his fist, and nearly knocking a cigar out of the mouth of a man at his side, with a face on him filled with idiotic admiration, “are for the future!” An old man uttered a cheer; the speaker then coughed, swallowed a draught of brandy-and-water, expanded his chest, ran his fingers through his hair, and began as follows, throwing out his arms in approved comic style:-- THE DAYS WHEN I WAS YOUNG. Of the days when I was young, sir, Sing the splendour and the fame, When the fields and woods among, sir, Traps were set to guard our game; When our clergymen got drunk, sir, And our Prince was made of waistcoats, When our soldiery had spunk, sir, And wore epaulets and faced coats. CHORUS--Sing the days when I was young! Such a song was never sung! When Madeira, port, and sherry Were such wines as made men wits: When our songs were coarse and merry, And our pockets full of writs! When we fought like hungry Spartans, And told tales like Jemmy Twitcher’s; When cognac was drunk in quarterns, And October ale in pitchers! Sing the days, etc. When the House was full of quarrels, And our hustings the arenas For dead cats and bilious morals And the music of hyenas! When our Avershaws were strangling, And our Mrs. Frys were preaching: And our priests and bishops wrangling, And our patriots a-screeching! Sing the days, etc. When a Tory _was_ a Tory, Armour’d tight in old tradition, Quoting nothing but the hoary, And a friend to superstition: Hating Irishman and priests, sir, All excisemen and dissenters, Holy fasts and holy feasts, sir, Whigs and Jews and ten-pound renters! Sing the days, etc. When our fiddlers were true artists, And our singers all had voices: Ere our labourers were Chartists, And the land was full of noises. When our “bloods” were breaking knockers, Smashing bells all free and hearty, And when little else could shock us But reports of Bonaparte. Sing the days, etc. When our coaches turn’d us over, And our watchmen snored in alleys: When it took a day to Dover, And a week or two to Calais. When Jack Ketch was hanging women Who stole bread for starving babies, And our rogues were just as common As new honey in old May bees. Sing the days, etc.