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CLUBS

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!"

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 !"

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 flowersOr 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 ono,

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 pair! 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 !”

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“On revient toujours."--French Song.
“And will I see his face again,
And will I hear him speak ?"

There's nae 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 !" 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.

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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 !!!

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 ?
Has he spoken his mind of the breeze that he had ?
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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