And she purposely dropt a pin that was little, 'Twas a wonderful Horn, to be but just! Nor meant to gather dust, must, and rust; So in half a jiffy, or less than that, In her scarlet cloak and her steeple-hat, Like old Dame Trot, but without her Cat, Trumpet in hand, or up to the cavity ;— Depravity! mercy shield her ears! 'Twas plain enough that her village peers In the ways of vice were no raw beginners; For whenever she raised the tube to her drum, Such sounds were transmitted as only come Brass Band of human sinners! From the very Ribald jest and blasphemous curse (Bunyan never vented worse), With all those weeds, not flowers, of speech Filthy Conjunctions, and Dissolute Nouns, And Particles pick'd from the kennels of towns, With Irregular Verbs for irregular jobs, Chiefly active in rows and mobs, Picking Possessive Pronouns' fobs, And Interjections as bad as a blight, Or an Eastern blast, to the blood and the sight; And smacking of vulgar lips where Gin, A jargon so truly adapted, in fact, To each thievish, obscene, and ferocious act, From their ugly mouths it will certainly come Alas! for the Voice of Virtue and Truth, And the sweet little innocent prattle of youth! The smallest urchin whose tongue could tang, Shock'd the Dame with a volley of slang, While the charity chap, With his muffin-cap, His crimson coat, and his badge so garish, 'Twas awful to hear, as she went along, Or supposing she listen'd-as gossips will- Of the dexterous "dodge," and the lots of " 'swag," The wanton speech of the wife immoral— The noise of drunken or deadly quarrel, With savage menaces, which threaten'd the life, Which is sliced and thrown to an old woman's cat ; And the head, so useful for shaking and nodding, a shocking bad hat To be punch'd into holes, like " That is only fit to be punch'd into wadding! In short, wherever she turn'd the horn, To the highly bred, or the lowly born, The working man who look'd over the hedge, The sober Quaker, averse to quarrels, Or the Governess pacing the village through, Truss'd by Decorum and stuff'd with morals Whether she listen'd to Hob or Bob, Nob or Snob, The Squire on his cob, Or Trudge and his ass at a tinkering job, To the Saint who expounded at "Little Zion Or the "Sinner who kept the Golden Lion The Beadle, the Clerk, or the Reverend Vicar- She gather'd such meanings, double or single, That like the bell With muffins to sell, Her ear was kept in a constant tingle! But this was nought to the tales of shame, The constant runnings of evil fame, Foul, and dirty, and black as ink, That her ancient cronies, with nod and wink, Pour'd in her horn like slops in a sink : While sitting in conclave, as gossips do, With their Hyson or Howqua, black or green, And not a little of feline spleen Lapp'd up in "Catty packages," too, To give a zest to the sipping and supping; For still by some invisible tether, Scandal and Tea are link'd together, |