Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theatres! What is the Regency in Tottenham Street, The Royal Amphitheatre of Arts, Astley’s, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil, Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee push’d Back from the narrow street that christened thee, I know not why they call thee Drury Lane. Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions, It grieves me much to see live animals Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit, Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig; Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist Of former Drury, imitated life Quite to the life. The Elephant its Blue Beard, Stuff’d by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis, As spruce as he who roar’d in Padmanaba. {68} Nought born on earth should die. On hackney stands I reverence the coachman who cries “Gee,” And spares the lash. When I behold a spider Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm, Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton, Indeed, indeed, I’m very, very sick! [Exit hastily. XIV. DRURY-LANE HUSTINGS. A New Halfpenny Ballad. BY A PIC-NIC POET. {69} * * * * * This is the very age of promise: To promise is most courtly and fashionable. Performance is a kind of will or testament, which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it.—TIMON OF ATHENS. [_To be sung by_ MR. JOHNSON _in the character of_ LOONEY M’TWOLTER.] I. Mr. Jack, your address, says the Prompter to me, So I gave him my card—No, that a’nt it, says he; ’Tis your public address. Oh! says I, never fear, If address you are bother’d for, only look here. [_Puts on hat affectedly_. Tol de rol lol, &c. II. With Drurys for sartin we’ll never have done, We’ve built up another, and yet there’s but one; The old one was best, yet I’d say, if I durst, The new one is better—the last is the first. Tol de rol, &c. III. These pillars are call’d by a Frenchified word, A something that’s jumbled of antique and verd; The boxes may show us some verdant antiques, Some old harridans who beplaster their cheeks. Tol de rol, &c. IV. Only look how high Tragedy, Comedy, stick, Lest their rivals, the horses, should give them a kick! If you will not descend when our authors beseech ye, You’ll stop there for life, for I’m sure they can’t reach ye. Tol de rol, &c. V.