JOHNSON. (_A Lay of Modern London._) By Thomas Blabbington Macawley. Stout Johnson, of Saint Thomas, By George and Jingo swore That the street door of Watkins Should hold its own no more, By George and Jingo swore he, And named a trysting day, For all his trusty friends on town To meet to tear the knocker down, And bear the bell away. From East-end and from West-end, His missives prompt entreat, Assistance (at his rooms resolv’d On making both ends meet), Shame on the craven spirit Who sends a poor excuse, And smokes his pipe at home or strolls Ignobly on the loose! The staunch allies in clusters Are dropping in apace, From many a lofty “chambers,” From many a lowly “place,” From “cribs,” and “dens,” and “quarters.” And vague mysterious “rooms,” Whose whereabouts to specify, No daring mind presumes. From Guy’s across the water, From Strand adjacent Kings’, From Charing (which a shadow o’er The mourn’d Casino flings!) From Bartlemy’s in Smithfield, Of accidents bereft! And Middlesex, whose course we trace From Oxford Street up Rathbone Place, By turning to the left. From wall-encircled Temple, Shut out from London’s noise. Where apron’d porters guard the way, And keep in awe the boys; From Gray’s and dingy Clement’s (Where rents so mod’rate run!) And Lincoln’s Inn, where stands, alas! Th’ Insolvent Court,――besides a mass Of others of a noisome class (Requiring far more nerve to pass), Where _no_ whitewashing’s done. Rich are the chops whose gravy Exudes o’er Rhodes’s[100] bars; And sweet, at Evans’s, the notes That issue from the singers’ throats In spite of the cigars. Beyond all bands the waltzer Loves Laurent’s (when in tune); Best of all grounds the bowler loves The American Saloon. But now no chop or kidney Emits its soft perfume; No voice is heard suggesting that “The waiter’s in the room.” In vain the sylphs at Laurent’s Their palms in kid have dressed; The bowls may wait, and Rhodes’s grate Enjoy a few bars rest. The comic songs of Cowell, To-night old men shall hear,―― To-night young boys and greenhorns Shall have the Argyle clear; And parsons from the country, To-night sole audience be, To hear Sam Hall or Baldwin’s call, “Attention for a glee!” A score of chosen spirits In Johnson’s rooms are met, And Johnson sees his birdseye Diminish with regret; And from the round stone bottles Too fast the liquids flow;―― He sees (and feels) his spirits sink, And inwardly begins to think―― ’Tis time for them to go. “Ho! friends and fellow students, ’Tis fit we should prepare For action (Fibbetson, you brute, Don’t interrupt the Chair!) The enterprise before us Must fraught with danger be; Will you go in through thick and thin To win the spoil with me?