on your brow.
Most natural, MAGOG, _most_ natural! Loyal old giants, like us,
Must be cut to the heart by these times, which they get every year
wus and wus!
It's Ikybod, MAGOG; I see it a-written all over the shop.
Our glory's departed, old partner. And where is it going for to
stop?
That Feast of BELSHAZZER weren't in it for worritting warnings of
woe;
Which our beautiful Annual Banquet will soon not be worth half a
blow.
It's not half a blow-out as it is, not compared with old glorious
gorges.
I wish, oh I wish, MAGOG mine, we was back in the times of the
GEORGES,
Or even DICK WHITTINGTON's days, which for Giants was quite good
enough;
But they've spoilt all the good things of life with their Science,
and Progress, and stuff.
I see how it's drifting, dear MAGOG. The Munching House and the
Gildhall.
Did use to be London's fust pride. Is it so in these days? Not at
all!
Whippersnappers cock snooks at us, MAGOG; A ignerent pert L.C.C.,
To whom Calipash is a mistry, whose soul never loved Calipee,
A feller elected by groundlings, who can't tell Madeira from Port,
Some sour-faced suburban Dissenter--_he_, MAGOG, may make us his
sport,
Without being popped in the pillory! Proper old punishment that!
As all the _old_ punishments _was_. We're a-getting too flabby,