BARTHOLOMEW FAIR.
Come bustle, neighbour Prig,
Buckl on your Sunday wig,
In our Sunday clothes so gaily,
Let us strut up the Old Bailey.
Oh! the devil take the rain,
We may never go again;
See, the shows have begun—O rare O!
Remember Mr Snip,
To take Mrs Snip,—
That's the little boy from Flanders,
And that there's Master Saunders—
Stand aside, and we'll have a stare, O!
High down, O down, derry derry down,
O the humours of Bartlemy Fair O!
Spoken.] Valk up, ladies and gentlemen, here's the wonderful birds and beastesses from Bengal in the Vest Indies. Here, ma'am, only look at this beautiful hanimal; no two spots on his body alike; it's out of the power of any limmer to describe him; measures fifteen feet from the snout to the tail, and fifteen feet from the tail to the snout; grows an inch and a half every year, and never comes to its proper growth, Turn him up there with a long pole.
High down, &c.
