cits,
Who drive their gigs, or sport their tits;
With all the groups we mean to dash on
Who form the busy world of fashion:
Proceeding onwards to the city,
With sketches, humorous and witty.
The man of business, and the Change,
Will come within our satire's range:
Nor rank, nor order, nor condition,
Imperial, lowly, or patrician,
Shall, when they see this volume, cry--
"The satirist has pass'd us by,"
But with good humour view our page
Depict the manners of the age.
Our style shall, like our subject, be
Distinguished by variety;
Familiar, brief we could say too--
(It shall be whimsical and new),
But reader that we leave to you.

'Twas morn, the genial sun of May
O'er nature spread a cheerful ray,
When Cockney Land, clothed in her best,
We saw, approaching from the west,
And 'mid her steeples straight and tall
Espied the dome of famed St. Paul,
Surrounded with a cloud of smoke
From many a kitchen chimney broke;
A nuisance since consumed below
By bill of Michael Angelo.{1}
The coach o'er stones was heard to rattle,

1 M. A. Taylor's act for compelling all large factories,
which have steam and other apparatus, to consume their own
smoke.

~166~~

The guard his bugle tuned for battle,
The horses snorted with delight,
As Piccadilly came in sight.
On either side the road was lined
With vehicles of ev'ry kind,
And as the rapid wheel went round,
There seem'd scarce room to clear the ground.
"Gate-gate-push on--how do--well met--
Pull up--my tits are on the fret--
The number--lost it--tip then straight,
That covey vants to bilk the gate."
The toll-house welcome this to town.
Your prime, flash, bang up, fly, or down,
A tidy team of prads,--your castor's
Quite a Joliffe tile,--my master.
Thus buck and coachee greet each other,
And seem familiar as a brother.
No Chinese wall, or rude barrier,
Obstructs the view, or entrance here;
Nor fee or passport,--save the warder,
Who draws to keep the roads in order;