Drive two horses, And change your name from Manassah to Howard. This "Centeenary" holiday of yours Gives me much pause. Supposing, instead of taking a day, You were to take a year, What would happen to England? SHE—WOULD—BE—RUINED! Yeth, indeed. 

 

 

   TO THE LORD MAYOR 

 (November 9th) 

 My dear Lord Mayor,— In Fleet Street all is gay From min' office window I catch glimpses Of fluttering bunting and swinging festoons. I don't know who pays for them (The bunting and the festoons, that is to say), But I am informed by the police that they (The bunting and the festoons, that is to say) Have been hung up in honour of YOU. I am also given to understand that there has been a big rush For free windows to view your procession, Which, all being well (the Procession, that is to say) Will take place this day, Saturday; For my own part I am going into the country, And I dare say that on the whole You wish you were going with me; But ambition has its penalties, And if you will become Lord Mayor of London (A dizzy pinnacle to which none but the biggest-souled of us May aspire) I suppose you must put up with the attendant inconveniences And publicity. So far as I have been able to judge (And I arrive at this conclusion by dint of steadfast abstinence From witnessing Lord Mayors' Shows) A Lord Mayor's Show is a distinctly inspiriting spectacle. It may be set down As the Londoner's one annual opportunity Of seeing a circus for nothing; Hence no doubt its popularity. Think not, however, my dear Lord Mayor, That I deprecate your little pageant, gratis though it be. This country, as everybody knows, Has for centuries past been on the high road to ruin, And, in my humble opinion, its decadence has been largely due To a deep-rooted tendency on the part of the powerful To curtail and do away with mayoral and other shows. Feasts and fairs have been kicked out of England By the aforesaid powerful: If you would be a respectable community You must have neither feast nor fair, And, if you would be a respectable citizen of any given city, You must not array yourself in motley. A man who walked into his bank In yellow trousers and a blue silk hat Would never be allowed an overdraft, Black and subdued greens and browns being the only wear For persons who would get on in life. All this is wrong, my dear Lord Mayor. I am of opinion that millionaires Ought to wear purple 

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