O philanthropic men!-- For this address I need not make apology-- Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen, And planting further off its vile Zoology-- Permit me thus to tell, I like your efforts well, For routing that great nest of Hornithology! Be not dismay’d although repulsed at first, And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts, Charge on!--you shall upon their hornworks burst, And carry all their _Bull_-warks and their _Ram_-parts. Go on, ye wholesale drovers! And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds As wild as Tartar-Curds, That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers, Off with them all!--those restive brutes, that vex Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle; And save the female sex From being cow’d--like Iö--by the cattle! Fancy,--when droves appear on The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top,-- Your ladies--ready, as they own, to drop, Taking themselves to Thomson’s with a _Fear-on_! Or, in St. Martin’s Lane, Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein,-- Fancy the terror of your timid daughters While rushing souse Into a coffee-house, To find it--Slaughter’s. Or fancy this:-- Walking along the street, some stranger Miss, Her head with no such thought of danger laden, When suddenly ’tis “Aries Taurus Virgo!” You don’t know Latin, I translate it ergo, Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden! Think of some poor old crone Treated, just like a penny, with a toss! At that vile spot now grown So generally known For making a Cow Cross! [Illustration: I SEE CATTLE!] Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall, Or shed, or shop--and that an Ox infuriate Just pins you to the wall, Giving you a strong dose of _Oxy-Muriate_! Methinks I hear the neighbours that live round The Market-ground Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows-- “’Tis well for you that live apart--unable To hear this brutal Babel, But our _firesides_ are troubled with their _bellows_. “Folks that too freely sup Must e’en put up With their own troubles If they can’t digest; But we must needs regard The case as hard That _others’_ victuals should disturb our rest, That from our sleep _your_ food should start and jump us! We like, ourselves, a steak, But, Sirs, for pity’s sake! We don’t want oxen at our doors to _rump-us_! “If we _do_ doze--it really is too bad! We constantly are roar’d awake or rung, Through bullocks mad That run in all the ‘Night Thoughts’ of our Young!”