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TURNED UP BY A FEMALE HAND. “Clubs! Clubs'! part 'em! part 'em! Clubs' Clubs!"—Ancient Cries of London.

OF all the modern schemes of Man
That time has brought to bear,
A plague upon the wicked plan
That parts the wedded pair'
My female friends they all agree
They hardly know their hubs;
And heart and voice unite with me,
“We hate the name of Clubs s”

One selfish course the Wretches keep;
They come at morning chimes,
To snatch a few short hours of sleep—
Rise—breakfast—read the Times—
Then take their hats, and post away,
Like Clerks or City scrubs,
And no one sees them all the day—
They live, eat, drink, at Clubs

On what they say, and what they do,
They close the Club-House gates;
But one may guess a speech or two,
Though shut from their debates; {
“The Cook's a hasher—nothing more—
The Children noisy grubs—
A Wife's a quiz, and home's a bore”—
Yes—that's the style at Clubs'

With Rundle, Doctor K., or Glasse,
And such Domestic Books,
They once put up—but now alas !
It's hey! for foreign cooks
“When will you dine at home, my Dove?”
I say to Mister Stubbs—
“When Cook can make an omelette, love—
An omelette like the Club's s”

Time was, their hearts were only placed
On snug domestic schemes,
The book for two—united taste—
And such connubial dreams—
Friends dropping in at close of day,
To singles, doubles, rubs,
A little music—then the tray—
And not a word of Clubs

But former comforts they condemn;
French kickshaws they discuss,
They take their wine, the wine takes them,
And then they favor us:—
From some offence they can’t digest,
As cross as bears with cubs,
Or sleepy, dull, and queer, at best—
That's how they come from Clubs'

It's very fine to say “Subscribe
To Andrews'—can't you read?”
When wives—the poor neglected tribe—
Complain how they proceed!
They'd better recommend at once
Philosophy and tubs;
A woman need not be a dunce
To feel the wrong of Clubs.

A set of savage Goths and Picts,
Would seek us now and then ;
They're pretty pattern-Benedicts
To guide our single men
Indeed my daughters both declare
“Their Beaux shall not be subs
To White's, or Black's, or anywhere—
They've seen enough of Clubs'

They say, “without the marriage ties,
They can devote their hours
To catechize, or botanize—
Shells, Sunday-schools, and flowers—
Or teach a Pretty Poll new words,
Tend Covent-Garden shrubs,
Nurse dogs and chirp to little birds—
As Wives do since the Clubs.”

Alas! for those departed days
Of social wedded life,
When married folks had married ways,
And lived like Man and Wife
Oh! Wedlock then was picked by none—
As safe a lock as Chubb's
But couples, that should be as one,
Are now the Two of Clubs'

Of all the modern schemes of man
That time has brought to bear,
A plague upon the wicked plan
That parts the wedded pairl
My female friends they all allow
They meet with slights and snubs,
And say, “they have no husbands now—
They're married to their Clubs]"


“On revient toujours.”—French Song.

“And will I see his face again,
And will I hear him 8peak f"
There's mae Luck about the House.

“THE Inconstant is come!” it's in every man's mouth;
From the East to the West, from the North to the South;
With a flag at her head, and a flag at her stern;
While the Telegraph hints at Lord Durham's return.

Turn wherever you will, it's the great talk and small;
Going up to Cornhill, going down to Whitehall;
If you ask for the news, it's the first you will learn,
And the last you will lose, my Lord Durham's return.

The fat pig in the sty, and the ox in the stall,
The old dog at the door, and the cat on the wall;
The wild bird in the bush, and the hare in the fern,
All appear to have heard of Lord Durham's return.

It has flown all abroad, it is known to goose-pens,
It is brayed by the ass, it is cackled by hens:
The Pintadas, indeed, make it quite their concern,
All exclaiming, “Come back l’’ at Lord Durham's return.

It's the text over wine, and the talk after tea;
All are singing one tune, though not set in one key.
E’en the Barbers unite, other gossip to spurn,
While they lather away at Lord Durham's return.

All the Painters leave off, and the Carpenters go,
And the Tailor above joins the Cobbler below,
In whole gallons of beer to expend what they earn,
While discussing one pint—my Lord Durham's return.

It is timed in the Times, with the News has a run,
Goes the round of the Globe, and is writ in the Sun.
Like the Warren on walls, fancy seems to discern,
In great letters of chalk, “Try Lord Durham's return l’’

Not a murder comes out; the reporters repine;
And a hanging is scarce worth a penny a line.
If a Ghost reappeared with his funeral urn,
He’d be thrown in the shade by Lord Durham's return.

No arrival could raise such a fever in town;
There's talk about 'Change, of the Stocks going down;
But the Butter gets up just as if in the churn,
It forgot it should come in Lord Durham's return.

The most silent are loud; the most sleepy awake;
Very odd that one man such a bustle can make
But the schools all break up, and both Houses adjourn,
To debate more at ease on Lord Durham's return.

Is he well ? is he ill? is he cheerful or sad 2
Has he spoken his mind of the breeze that he had 7
It was rather too soon with home-sickness to yearn;
There will come something yet of Lord Durham's return.

There's a sound in the wind since that ship is come home;
There are signs in the air like the omens of Rome;
And the lamps in the street, and the stars as they burn,
Seem to give a flare-up at Lord Durham's return

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