A troop of the Blues, On the people's shoes, When the crowds increase, Of metropolitan police, And keep people back, With a push or a crack, To get for themselves a front row; For really, in spite Of their collars, and numbers, and letters, They love a sight Just as much as their betters. The signal is given - they fire the guns; In every direction, now every one runs ; Not that they know exactly why, But they think they ought to make a move, And give the people near them a shove, When "the Queen, the Queen," becomes the cry; Policemen their staves begin to brandish, The steeds of the Blues cut capers outlandish, Shewing at once their airs and graces, Switching their tails in every one's faces; Corpulent people, who take up room, Get a poke, that they think extremely rude, Their unfortunate stomachs presume. Now the procession comes, To blow in time the trumpeters try, While their horses do nothing but kick and shy; The mounted musicians strain their throats, They make an attempt, to supply the bass; OBSERVATIONS IN THE STREET. W E invariably encounter in our peregrinations certain people, who have some peculiar feature or other as infallibly distinguishing them from their fellow bipeds, as the marks assigned by Nature to point out the differences existing amongst quadrupedal tribes. The Fop walks on his toes with stilted affectation, smiles and simpers, and his pace never exceeds an idle saunter. He adjusts alternately the cock of his hat and the set of his curls, and arranges his stock and pulls down his waistcoat about five times in twice as many minutes. He fails not to admire himself in every mirror he encounters,-mirrors possessing the same attraction for his personal points as the loadstone has for the needle to which he is indebted for them. The Lounger differs from the Fop, inasmuch as he is constantly occupied with everything but himself; he has generally a limited income; and his world is confined to the neighbourhood of the parks, the clubs, and the theatres. His time is passed in alternately lounging to and from one or the other, and his "pauses and rests" are coffee-rooms, cigardivans, and billiard-tables. The jeux d' esprit of "Punch," he retails as "capital things that were said at my club last night." He always is (or pretends to have been) one of the first at every opera, ballet, play, concert, ball, exhibition, or other public place, and no doubt he will be the first to trail his cane round Trafalgar Square, and puff the cloud of his Cuba at the foot of Nelson's Pillar. He knows exactly what took place in "the House" last night, and what will transpire on the first reading of the new Bill for getting rid of light sovereigns |