In London, when folks’ taste was low, They used to like the Lord Mayor’s show; But now ’tis voted very slow―― A dull affair, decidedly. But London showed another sight, When the Queen came on Wednesday night, Escorted, through a blaze of light To join the City revelry. At every window smart array’d, Sat civic lass, and Cockney blade; And all the populace hoorayed To see the Royal pageantry. Then shook St. Paul’s, with shouting riven; Then rushed the steeds, up Cheapside driven; And still more stunning cheers were given By noisy British loyalty. But noisier yet the crowd will grow, Through King Street, as the Queen shall go To Guildhall, there――on gouty toe―― To see her hosts dance heavily. The concourse thickens! Heroes brave, Who flash the bull’s eye on the knave, Wave, Crushers, all your truncheons wave, And charge them with the cavalry. The Hall is gained; but lo! what fun! As to a ball, the Sovereign’s done! Except her suite, there’s room for none To dance before her Majesty. Few, few can polk where many meet, And have no space to kick their feet; The Hop a failure was complete; The Supper went off decently. _Punch_, July 19, 1851. ―――― SWINDON. At Swindon when the night drew nigh, Few were the trains that went thereby, And very dreary was the sigh, Of damsels waiting dolefully. But Swindon saw another sight, When the train came at dead of night, Commanding oil and gas to light Much stale confectionery. By soups and coffee fast allured, Each passenger his choice secured, Excepting those lock’d in, immured By sly policeman’s treachery. Then rushed the mob, by hunger driven; Then vanished buns, in pieces riven; And louder than the orders given, Fast popped the beer artillery. But farther yet the train shall go, And deeper yet shall be their woe, And greater horrors shall they know, Who bolt their food so speedily. Time’s up; but scarce each sated one Can pierce the steam cloud, rolling dun, Where curious tart and heavy bun Lie in dyspeptic sympathy. The combat thickens. On, ye brave! Who scald your throats, in hope to save Some spoonsful of your soup, the knave Will charge for all he ladles ye! Few, few, digest where many eat, The nightmare shall wind up their feat, Each carpet bag beneath their seat Shall seem a yawning sepulchre. ANONYMOUS. ―――― HOTEL SWINDLING.