As for Billingsgate Market, the trade there's downright flat, ruinated and dead; The fine fresh soles can't come up to be cried, and so they cries cast-metal skates instead. I alvays thought sitch things vos regilated by act of parlyment, and proclaimed by the Lord Mayor; I knows a bit o' Burnses's Justice, I does; and my opinion is, it aint a legle fair. It's a nice look out, ain't it, for a young man vot the vater's his only bread? I'm blowed if I don't think I shall cut the river, and take to the land instead, And labour for the adwantage o' science—body-snatching, I mean—for where's the harm, ifegs! Ven their ain't no further demand for skulls, to try to do a little bisness in arms and legs? As for the vind, I think it'll never be nothink but due nor' again: I often looks up at the weathercock, but, bless your heart, it's all in _vane_! Poor fellers! as Shakespear says, our occipation's rig'lar done up, and no mistake, Vot vith von thing or another (vich von misfortin, you know, alvays brings another in its wake). I don't like to say nothink unliberal or unvatermanlike, but this I vill say, the ruin of us is Them tarnation, smoking, steaming, fizzing, pothering, unnattaral-looking water-buses. Unnattaral, _I say_—for who ever meant wessels to go on wheels? or a nasty, long, curly, black, Stinking, pothery pennant o' smoke to take place o' the British Union Jack? And as if that vosn't enough, to spoil our trade and set all our poor old hearts a breaking, Mr. Brunel must come to finish us up, poor wretches! vith his horrid _under_-taking. Mister B. is a wery ambitious man, that's vot he is, and his work a wery great bore: But, thank heav'n! it'll be a long time before his tunnel (whatever his fame may do) reaches from shore to shore. I never gets a sight o' nothink good now—beefsteaks, nor anything else that's nice: No ingins (except steam ingins), and you may count my ribs (tho' you can't the ribs of ice). I did a job for a confectioner t'other day, as vos a trying to larn to skate, But his heels tript up right bang, and down he fell on the back of his pate. Vell, up I vips him in my arms, and carries him straight off home in a trice. I _did_ think I should get a glass of grog for that job, but, says he, "Von't you take a ice?" "No, Sir," says I, walking off wery indignant, and looking jest as sour as sour crout, "Ven I takes a drop o' liquor I al'ys has it 'varm vith'—I doesn't like 'cold vithout.'"