The swipes he draws is sour enough to turn a navvy pale, Tho’ by a bitter raillery he calls it bitter ale; And tho’ perhaps you don’t see half a waiter all the day, For “attendance” quite as much as for a lawyer’s you must pay To this fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time. Then if to wine your tastes incline some home-made Cape you’ll get, Served up in a decanter like a vinegar-cruet, As a “bottle of Madeira” this will in the bill be set, And however nasty it may be a nice sum you’re in debt, To the fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time. And if your wife be with you, you must have a private room, And use a pair “of wax-lights” (with a muttony perfume), For which you’ll pay a crown a day, and ’tis a burning shame That whether they be lit or not, they’re charged for just the same, By this rare old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time. But soon these fine old Innkeepers will find their race is run, For men are up and doing, and no longer will be done: And shortly we may hope to see a really good hotel Where we may be admitted, and not taken in as well, As we were by our old Innkeeper, one of the fleecing time. _Punch._ October 29, 1853. ―――― THE FINE OLD STANDARD TRAGEDY. I’ll sing you a fine new song, tho’ it’s subject’s out of date, Of a fine old standard tragedy that was once pronounced first-rate, To which our great-great-grandmothers would go in all their state, And drag their time out drearily, for ’twas “legitimate,” Was this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time. This play so old was writ throughout in blank verse ’stead of prose, And in blank terms the characters detailed their loves and woes; And there the audience sat it out, or took a quiet doze, And roused themselves up vig’rously to see the dismal close Of this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time. When winter brought the theatres that open’d house to all, Although one score and ten its scenes, through each they yet would bawl: Nor was the slightest interest e’er given to enthral, And, until five dull acts were o’er, the curtain would not fall, On this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time. But better taste must come at last, and _such_ plays be put by, And empty houses soon proclaimed this tragedy must die; They gave it up right grudgingly, and not without a sigh, And found they must at last look round for sterling novelty, Instead of standard tragedies, all of the olden time.