All is changed round where King Charles the First Rears his dark motionless Equestrian phiz; That, could he speak, he’d say, “May I be curst If my poor _girthless_ steed knows where he is!” Water in _wooden_ pipes, ran under ground, They’re _iron_ now, and fire runs by their side; And, could but fairy laundresses be found, We might _below_ get iron’d, wash’d, and dried! Stout oars and swelling sails we once did deem Sufficient in a boat for tide and wind; Now only boiling water we esteem, And all, though _right before_ is _left behind_! Horses were changed, _en route_ to Gretna Green, And “first pair out!” would landlords loudly bawl; But “Polly put the kettle on,” I ween, Will greet us when for horses there’s _no call_! Three theatres, C. G., D. L., H. M. Were thought enough, but now no limit bars Some _three-and-thirty_, while the most of _them_ Exist on _moonshine_ to support the _stars_! _Velocipedes_ have hurried _quickly_ past, _Kaliedescopes_ have _changed_ this many a day, While, o’er McAdam’s dust, wheels slow or fast Maintain the “_noiseless tenor_ of their way.” Churches increase, and _chapels_ ten times more, But, most of all, in streets, and rows, and ranks, Do gin shops grow with temp’rance clubs next door, And lovely little hells and saving banks! With _penny_ periodical reviews; _Halfpenny_ prints precede _Old Ladies Mags._, And coffee shops present their farthing news, With crumpets, cream, and kidneys done to rags! Thus things will change as long as time doth move! And now upon the humble _lay_ I sing A veto let me lay, lest it should prove THE COMIC MAGAZINE’S a serious thing! _The Comic Magazine_, Volume 1. 1832. ――――:o:―――― THE GAMBLER. The lamps refract the gleam of parting day, The weary vulgar hail the friendly night, The GAMESTER hies him to his darling play, And leads the way to deeds that shun the light. Now reigns a dreary stillness in each street, And mortal feuds are hush’d in breathless calm, Save where the votaries of _Hodges_ meet, And springing rattles sound the shrill alarm. Save that from yonder lantern lighted walk, The drowsy watchman bawls with clam’rous din, At such as stopping in the streets to talk, Omit the tribute of a glass of gin. Beneath the roof, that ruin fraught retreat, Where beams the fanlight o’er the guarded door, Each wedg’d by numbers in his narrow seat, The _faithless_ gamblers chink their current ore. The triste entreaties of impassion’d grief, The piteous tale of family distressed, The stranger’s ruin, or the friend’s relief, No more shall raise compassion in their breast. For them no more the midnight rush shall burn, Or wearied menial be detain’d from bed; No wives expectant watch for their return, Or anxious listen to each passing tread.