Classic Poem

A Ballad to the Tune of " Oh, London is a Fine Town "

Oh, St. James' is a lovely place,
'Tis better than the city;
For there are balls and operas,
And everything that's pretty.

There's little Lady Cuzzoni,
And fisking Dame Faustina;
The deuce a bit will either sing
Unless they're each a queen-a.

And when we've eek'd out history,
And made them rival queens,
They'll warble sweetly on the stage,
And scold behind the scenes;

When, having fill'd their pockets full,
No longer can they stay,
But turn their backs upon the town,
And scamper all away.

The belles and beaux cry after them
With all their might and main;
And Heidegger is sent in haste
To fetch 'em back again.

Then hey for a subscription
To th'opera or ball,
The silver ticket wags about
Until there comes a call.

This puts them into doleful dumps
Who were both blithe and gay;
There's nothing spoils diversion more
Than telling what's to pay.

Oh, there's Miss Polly Peachum hugs
Our nobles by the ears,
Till Ponder Well by far exceeds
The musick of the spheres.

Who, Lo! to show the wisdom great
Of London's famous town,
We set her up above herself,
And then we take her down.

And there's your beaux, with powder'd cloaths,
Bedaub'd from head to shin:
Their pocket-holes adorn'd with gold,
But not a souse within.

And there's your pretty gentlemen,
All dress'd in silk and satin,
That get a piece of ev'rything,
Excepting sense and Latin.

Who brag and bounce till danger comes,
Oh! then they lag and falter,
And think it better to resign
Than venture to Gibraltar.

And there's your cits that have their tits
In Finsbury so sweet,
But costlier tits they keep, God wot,
In Bond and Poultney Street.

And there's your green nobility,
On citizens so witty,
Whose fortunes and gentility
Arose from London's city.

Our fathers labour'd for our ease,
And left us store of treasure;
Then let us make the most of life,
And lay it out in pleasure.

We go to bed when others rise,
And dine at candle-light;
There's nothing mends complexion more
Than turning day to night.

For what is title, wealth, or wit,
If folks are not genteel?
Oh, how can they be said to live
Who know not what's quadrille?