The "good old times" are past, my boys, The "good old times" are past, When the balls were cut from each dog's paw, For fear they should hunt—so ran the law, In the "good times" past. Then manure, they said, was bad for the game, And rendered the flavour stronger; So they made it death to Manure the land— Thank God, _that_ lasts no longer! The "good old times" are past, my boys, The "good old times" are past, When the walls of Temple Bar were spread With many a "traitor's" rotting head, In the "good times" past. Then for forty shillings men were hung, And the thirst for blood grew stronger Man's life was valued then at a sheep's— Thank God, _that_ lasts no longer! [Illustration: _What it must come to, at last, if the Ladies go on blowing themselves out as they do!_ ] [Illustration: BLOWING UP ONE'S WIFE. ] ALL A-BLOWING! ALL A-GROWING! At the time of the French Revolution it was the fashion for ladies to wear their dresses as tight round as pillow-cases; but now-a-days all is confusion and bustle. That plaguy half-moon thing has set the ladies' dresses swelling and swelling, till it will soon take as much stuff to make a skirt as it does to make a tent. Forty years back a "full dress" would go comfortably into a bandbox, but now it is only with a great deal of pressing that more than one can be squeezed into an opera-box.