Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/A Newspaper
A Newspaper.
Organs that gentlemen play, my boy,
To answer the taste of the day, my boy;
Whatever it be,
They hit on the key,
And pipe in full concert away, my boy.
To answer the taste of the day, my boy;
Whatever it be,
They hit on the key,
And pipe in full concert away, my boy.
News from all countries and chimes, my boy,
Advertisements, essays, and rhymes, my boy,
Mixed up with all sorts
Of flying reports,
And published at regular times, my boy.
Advertisements, essays, and rhymes, my boy,
Mixed up with all sorts
Of flying reports,
And published at regular times, my boy.
Articles able and wise, my boy,
At least in the editor's eyes, my boy,
A logic so grand
That few understand
To what in the world it applies, my boy.
At least in the editor's eyes, my boy,
A logic so grand
That few understand
To what in the world it applies, my boy.
Statistics, reflections, reviews, my boy,
Little scraps to instruct and amuse, my boy,
And lengthy debate
Upon matters of State
For wise-headed folks to peruse, my boy.
Little scraps to instruct and amuse, my boy,
And lengthy debate
Upon matters of State
For wise-headed folks to peruse, my boy.
The funds as they were and are, my boy,
The quibbles and quirks of the bar, my boy,
And every week
A clever critique
On some rising theatrical star, my boy.
The quibbles and quirks of the bar, my boy,
And every week
A clever critique
On some rising theatrical star, my boy.
The age of Jupiter's moons, my boy,
The stealing of somebody's spoons, my boy,
The state of the crops,
The style of the fops,
And the wit of the public buffoons, my boy.
The stealing of somebody's spoons, my boy,
The state of the crops,
The style of the fops,
And the wit of the public buffoons, my boy.
List of all physical ills, my boy,
Banished by somebody's pills, my boy,
Till you ask with surprise
Why any one dies,
Or what's the disorder that kills, my boy.
Banished by somebody's pills, my boy,
Till you ask with surprise
Why any one dies,
Or what's the disorder that kills, my boy.
Who has got married, to whom, my boy,
Who were cut off in their bloom, my boy,
Who has had birth
On this sorrow-stained earth,
And who totters fast to their tomb, my boy.
Who were cut off in their bloom, my boy,
Who has had birth
On this sorrow-stained earth,
And who totters fast to their tomb, my boy.
The price of cattle and grain, my boy,
Directions to dig, and to drain, my boy,
But 'twould take me too long
To tell you in song
A quarter of all they contain, my boy.
Directions to dig, and to drain, my boy,
But 'twould take me too long
To tell you in song
A quarter of all they contain, my boy.