Gay are Reform Processions, The Lord Mayor’s Show is gay, But the Circus-ride All else beside Surpasses in that way, Where piglings, born in litters, Did late attention crave, And implements of husbandry The reaping hook to save; Where (shows of mules and hosses Are likewise in its line), We’ve had of late A gathering great Of fatted sheep and kine. But nobler now the show is, And brighter the array―― A pageant, gay and glorious, A quite unique display Of horsemanship That none may whip Is opened there this day. Tall are the iron siphons That rise in Pentonville, And lofty is the viaduct You see at Holborn Hill, Thwaites, at the Thames Embankment, Has worked for many a year, Beneath our highways Fowler drove An Underground career. But now no water-workmen Are found at Pentonville, No navvies poise the girders huge For spanning Holborn Hill, Unheeded on th’ Embankment Rings out the cry of “Beer!” Unwatched the populace may urge Their Underground career! The harvests at Refreshment bars Just now young men may reap; Just now the banks of Lombard The unfledged clerks may keep; And in the vats of Romford Just now the brewing’s done By ’prentice hands, for all the world Has gone to Islington. Ho! bandsmen, toot your bugle! Ho! grooms, there, clear the course, For Mademoiselle Will cut a swell Upon her high-trained horse, And here is Jones of Putney, Who rides the bare-backed steed; And here is Brown of Camberwell, Who clears six hoops at speed; And here is Peckham’s Perkins, The foremost in the land, With tinsel fillet, smiling lip, And cracking whip, and loud Ya-hip, Who drives eighteen-in-hand. Make way for the procession―― Make way there, great and small―― It comes,――the _troupe_ of Sanger, Of the Agricultural Hall! _Fun._ ―――― THE BATTLE OF LAKE MORT. _A Lay sung at a Feast of Bacchus, about the Kalends of Aprilis, in the year of grace_ MDCCCLXX. _With Latin notes by Canis._ I. Ho, undergrads, be merry! Ho, all men, shout away! The Crew will ride, in all their pride Along the streets to day. To-day the doors and windows Are hung with “colours” all, From hand-bills in the street way, To posters on the wall. Each man is clothed in “blazer,” With light blue each is crowned; And each preserves a well made oar No more to rowlock bound. While flows our turbid river, While stands our Market hill, The Kalends of Aprilis Shall have such honour still. Gay are the Ides of Maia: December’s Nones are gay: But the Kalends which April sends, Shall be our proudest day. II.