For my part in the matter, if so be I had a voice, It’s the best among the vocalists I’d honour with the choice; Or a Poet as could furnish a new Ballad to the bunch; Or at any rate the surest hand at mixing of the punch; Cause why, the members meet for that and other tuneful frolics-- And not to say, like Muffincaps, their Catichiz and Collec’s. But you see them there Itinerants that preach so long and loud, And always takes advantage like the prigs of any crowd, Have brought their jangling voices, as far as they can compass, Have turn’d a tavern shindy to a seriouser rumpus, And him as knows most hymns--altho’ I can’t see how it follers-- They want to be the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers! Well, that’s the row--and who can guess the upshot after all? Whether Harmony will ever make the “Arms” her House of call, Or whether this here mobbing--as some longish heads foretel it, Will grow to such a riot that the Oxford Blues must quell it. Howsomever, for the present, there’s no sign of any peace, For the hubbub keeps a growing, and defies the New Police;-- But if _I_ was in the Vestry, and a leading sort of Man, Or a Member of the Vocals, to get backers for my plan, Why, I’d settle all the squabble in the twinkle of a needle, For I’d have another candidate--and that’s the Parish Beadle, Who makes such lots of Poetry, himself, or else by proxy, And no one never has no doubts about his orthodoxy; Whereby--if folks was wise--instead of either of them Scholars, And straining their own lungs along of contradictious hollers, They’ll lend their ears to reason, and take my advice as follers, Namely--Bumble for the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers! A TABLE OF ERRATA. (HOSTESS LOQUITUR.) Well! thanks be to heaven, The summons is given; It’s only gone seven And should have been six; There’s fine overdoing In roasting and stewing, And victuals past chewing To rags and to sticks! How dreadfully chilly! I shake, willy-nilly; That John is so silly And never will learn! This plate is a cold one, That cloth is an old one, I wish they had told one The lamp wouldn’t burn. Now then for some blunder, For nerves to sink under; I never shall wonder Whatever goes ill. That fish is a riddle! It’s broke in the middle, A Turbot! a fiddle! It’s only a Brill! It’s quite over-boil’d too, The butter is oil’d too, The soup is all spoil’d too, It’s nothing but slop. The smelts looking flabby, The soles are as dabby, It all is so shabby That Cook shall not stop! As sure as the morning, She gets a month’s warning, My orders for scorning-- There’s nothing to eat! I hear such a rushing, I feel such a flushing, I know I am blushing As red as a beet!