And surely this is better far when managers are made To shelve these tragedies that have of interest not a shade; And much more economical――for actors then are paid―― Exchequers filled, and houses cramm’d, to see the dramas play’d, In place of standard tragedies, all of the olden time. From _Motley_, by Cuthbert Bede. London: James Blackwood, 1855. (This Parody had previously appeared in Albert Smith’s _Town and Country Miscellany_.) ―――― THE FINE OLD ENGLISH OMNIBUS. I’ll sing you a new song at once, before it is too late, Of a fine old public vehicle, grown sadly out of date, Which, though a perfect nuisance in more ways than I can state, Is suffered in our thoroughfares still to perambulate. A fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time. Its windows old let in the cold whene’er the east wind blows, And drip by drip the wet admit, whene’er it rains or snows; But how to get them open without breaking no one knows, When with “12 inside” the atmosphere a little “stuffy” grows, In this fine old fusty Omnibus, one of the present time. Its cushions, when inspected in the light of other days, With the richest (cotton) velvet of a crimson hue did blaze; But now their threadbare covering’s a dingy brickdust red, And what was horsehair stuffing once now feels like lumps of lead, In this rare old English Omnibus one that is past its prime. Its seats so close together bring the sitters nose to nose, And everybody’s forced to tread on everybody’s toes, Whence cheerful conversation springs, especially from those Who’ve corns or gout, and glare about as though you’re mortal foes, In this nice old City Omnibus, just to beguile the time. Then if outside for air you’d ride, the clambering to your seat Would, if performed at Astley’s, be pronounced a “daring feat;” For ere you’re half-way up you hear them coolly cry “All right!” And then the “knife-board” cramps you so, with pain you can alight From this height of inconvenience, the subject of my rhyme. And then the cad who tends the ’bus――his virtues who may tell? How with his every breath there comes a fragrant beery smell: How when he’s bound for Brompton he’ll engage to put you down Within a “heasy walk” of any part of Camden Town, By his fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time. Nor should our praises be withheld from him who holds the reins, Who constantly is pulling up for furtive “little drains:” And ’specially on muddy days is rarely found to fail Of stopping in mid street to pick up passengers who hail This fine old English Omnibus: fun of the present time.