The Court, however, expressed an opinion, that the Goddess of Wisdom, by making an unprovoked sortie on so respectable a baboon, had not acted with her usual discretion, and directed Minerva to be nonsuited. Look at the gay caps and bonnets in yonder balcony; and hark to the fifes and fiddles, accelerating the sharp trot to a full gallop! And now the volunteer vocalist, having frowned into nothingness a St. Cecilian on the salt-box, demands silence for this seasonable chant. Don't you remember the third of September? Fun's Saturnalia, Bartlemy fair! Punch's holiday, O what a jolly day! When we fiddled and danced at the Bear. Romping, reeling it, toe and heeling it, Ham and vealing it, toddy and purl-- Have you forgot that I paid the shot I have not! my adorable girl. With ranters and roysters we push'd thro' the cloisters, Had plenty of oysters, of porter a pot; I treated my Hebe with brandy, not (B. B!) And sausages smoking, and gingerbread hot. She whisper'd, “How nice is fried bacon in slices, And eggs”--What a crisis!--Love egg'd me on-- “My dearest,” said I, “ I wish I may die If we don't have a fry to-night at the Swan.” How we giggled when Pantaloon wriggled, And led a jig with Columbine down; How we roar'd when Harlequin's sword Conjur'd Mother Goose into the Clown! To Saunders's booth I toddled my Ruth, Saw Master and Miss romp and reel on the rope-- And it was our faults if we didn't both waltz, My eye! with old Guy, Old Nick and the Pope. Rigging's rife again, fun's come to life again, Punch and his wife again, frolicksome pair, Footing it, crikey! like Cupid and Psyche, Summon each rum'un to Bartlemy fair. Trumpets blowing, roundabouts going, Toby the Theban, intelligent Pig! His compliments sends, inviting his friends To meet the Bonassus to-night at a jig.