Their bodies were never cut down; For granny relates with amazement, A witch bore ’em over the town, And hung them on Thorowgood’s casement, The neighbours, I’ve heard the folks say, The miracle noisily brag on; And the shop is, to this very day, The sign of the George and the Dragon, Rum ti, &c. XXI. PUNCH’S APOTHEOSIS. BY T. H. {102} [Mr. Hook died 24th August, 1841, in his 53rd year.] * * * * * “Rhymes the rudders are of verses, With which, like ships, they steer their courses.” HUDIBRAS. * * * * * _Scene draws_, _and discovers_ PUNCH _on a throne_, _surrounded by_ LEAR, LADY MACBETH, MACBETH, OTHELLO, GEORGE BARNWELL, HAMLET, GHOST, MACHEATH, JULIET, FRAIR, APOTHECARY, ROMEO, _and_ FALSTAFF.—PUNCH _descends and addresses them in the following_ RECITATIVE. As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is, So I with you am master of the ceremonies— These grand rejoicings. Let me see, how name ye ’em?— Oh, in Greek lingo ’tis E-pi-thalamium. October’s tenth it is: toss up each hat to-day, And celebrate with shouts our opening Saturday! On this great night ’tis settled by our manager, That we, to please great Johnny Bull, should plan a jeer, Dance a bang-up theatrical cotillion, And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion; That every soul, whether or not a cough he has, May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus. So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini, {103a} Spin up a tetotum like Angiolini: {103b} That John and Mrs. Bull, from ale and tea-houses, May shout huzza for Punch’s Apotheosis! _They dance and sing_. AIR, “_Sure such a day_.”—TOM THUMB. LEAR. Dance, Regan! dance, with Cordelia and Goneril— Down the middle, up again, poussette, and cross; Stop, Cordelia! do not tread upon her heel, Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse. See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub, And t’other’s clack, who pats her back, is louder far than hell’s hubbub. They tweak my nose, and round it goes—I fear they’ll break the ridge of it, Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the bridge of it. {103c} OMNES. Round let us bound, for this is Punch’s holyday, Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza! LADY MACBETH. _I_ kill’d the king; my husband is a heavy dunce; He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the stud. One loves long gloves; for mittens, like king’s evidence, Let truth with the fingers out, and won’t hide blood. MACBETH.