No questions ask'd, but all that please
May pass and repass at their ease.

In cockney land, the seventh day
Is famous for a grand display
Of modes, of finery, and dress,
Of cit, west-ender, and noblesse,
Who in Hyde Park crowd like a fair
To stare, and lounge, and take the air,
Or ride or drive, or walk, and chat
On fashions, scandal, and all that.--
Here, reader, with your leave, will we
Commence our London history.
'Twas Sunday, and the park was full
With Mistress, John, and Master Bull,
And all their little fry.
The crowd pour in from all approaches,
Tilb'ries, dennets, gigs, and coaches;

~167~~

The bells rung merrily.
Old dowagers, their fubsy faces{2}
Painted to eclipse the Graces,
Pop their noddles out
Of some old family affair
That's neither chariot, coach, or chair,
Well known at ev'ry rout.
But bless me, who's that coach and six?
"That, sir, is Mister Billy Wicks,
A great light o' the city,
Tallow-chandler, and lord mayor{3};
Miss Flambeau Wicks's are the fair,
Who're drest so very pretty.
It's only for a year you know
He keeps up such a flashy show;
And then he's melted down.
The man upon that half-starved nag{4}
Is an Ex-S------ff, a strange wag,
Half flash, and half a clown.
But see with artful lures and wiles
The Paphian goddess, Mrs. G***s,{5}

2 There are from twenty to thirty of these well known relics
of antiquity who regularly frequent the park, and attend all
the fashionable routs,--perfumed and painted with the
utmost extravagance: if the wind sets in your face, they may
be scented at least a dozen carriages off.

3 It is really ludicrous to observe the ridiculous pride of
some of these ephemeral things;--during their mayoralty, the
gaudy city vehicle with four richly caparisoned horses is
constantly in the drive, with six or eight persons crammed
into it like a family waggon, and bedizened out in all the
colours of the rainbow;--ask for them six months after, and
you shall find them more suitably employed, packing rags,
oranges, or red her