The feast was over on LORD MAYOR'S DAY; The waiters had clear'd the viands away; The Common Councilmen all were gone, And every Alderman,—saving _one_; Who to gorge and guzzle no longer able, Had sunk to repose beneath the table, And, sooth'd by his own melodious snore, Lay calmly stretch'd on the Guildhall floor.
But he lay not long in the arms of sleep, Ere a sound, that caus'd his flesh to creep, Startled him up from his _downy_ bed, And caus'd him to raise his aching head; When oh, what a sight then met his eyes, And chill'd his soul with sad surprise! * * * * * He bawl'd aloud when the scene was o'er, Which awoke the porter, who open'd the door. When a bottle of sherry had loosen'd his tongue, 'Twas thus the LATEST ALDERMAN sung:—
I was rous'd from my sleep by a frightful crash, As if all the crockery'd gone to smash; And I straight beheld a terrible form,— At the end of the hall it took its stand, With a swingeing besom in its hand, And shouted out "REFORM!"
Then stalking to me, it thus did say, "Gone is the glory of LORD MAYOR'S DAY! Gone—gone, for ever! To come back never. The Corporation Reform Bill's past, And ev'ry ward is _Cheap_; The City of London they'll squeeze at last, And scatter her golden heap.
"_Portsoken_ no more _Port_ shall _soke_, For guzzling they'll a_Bridge_ it." (I thought this quite beyond a joke, And it put me in a fidget.) "No 'fair round bellies with capon lin'd Your Aldermen shall sport; They may double the _Cape_, if they feel inclin'd, But they never must touch at _Port_.
"The Worshipful Court—so fate ordains— Shall look like skeletons hanging _in chains_; They'll need no gowns, for they'll get so thin, They may wrap themselves round in their own loose skin; And then in vain Shall they complain, Who cannot bear the shock; _Champagne_ shall turn to _real pain_, And _Turtle_ change to _mock_. No calipash or calipee Their longing eyes again shall see; No more green fat! To them shall _ven'son_ still be _deer_; Their stout shall turn to thin small beer, Sour and flat.
"No lamps shall blaze in this spacious hall, But farthing rushlights, lank and small, Some cook-shop's dining-room shall grace, Where _Mister_ Mayor, with sword and mace, And all the Corporation sinners, By city contract clothed and fed, Shall dine at eighteen pence a-head, And feel quite grateful for their dinners. While the armour-man, like a turtle starv'd. Shall rattle his bones in his iron shell, And no more shall feast on baron of beef, But _stand_ content with the cook-shop smell!"