ubject:

THE BULL FIGHT OF SMITHFIELD.

There's trampling feet in Goswell Street, there's row on Holborn
Hill,
There's crush and crowd, and swearing loud, from bass to treble
shrill;
From grazier cad, and drover lad, and butcher shining greasy,
And slaughter men, and knacker's men, and policemen free and easy.

'Tis Monday morn, and onward borne to Smithfield's mart repair
The pigs and sheep, and, lowing deep, the oxen fine and fair;
They're trooping on from Islington, and down Whitechapel road,
To wild halloo of a shouting crew, and yelp, and bite, and goad.

From combs of distant Devonshire, from sunny Sussex wold,
From where their Durham pastures the stately short-horns hold;
From Herefordshire marches, from fenny Cambridge flat,
For London's maw they gather--those oxen fair and fat.

The stunted stocks of Cambria's rocks uneasily are lowing,
With redder blaze of wild amaze their eyes around them throwing;
And the unkempt stot of Galloway, and the Kyloe of the Mearns,
Whose hoof, that crush'd the heather tuft, the mild MACADAM spurns.

They may talk of _plaza mayors_, of _torero's_ nimble feat,
Of MONTEZ, the famed _matador_ of _picadors_ so fleet;
But what is Spanish Bull fight to deeds which we can show,
When through the street, at all they meet, the Smithfield oxen go?

See there, see there, where, high in air, the nurse and nurseling
fly!
Into a first-floor window, see, where that old gent, they shy!
Now they're bolting into parlours, now they're tumbling into cellars,
To the great disgust and terror of the peaceable indwellers.

Who rides so neat down Chiswell Street? A City Knight, I ween;
By girth and span an alderman, nor less by port and mien.
Look out, look out! that sudden shout! the Smithfield herd is nigh!
Now turn, Sir Knight, and boldly fight, or, more discreetly, fly.

He hath eased round on his saddle, all fidgetty and fast;
There's another herd behind him, and the time for flight is past.
Full in his front glares a rabid runt, thro' tears of pain that blind
him,
For the drover's almost twisted off the tail that hangs behind him.

All lightly armed for such a shock was stout SIR CALIPEE,
But he couched his new umbrella, and "Police" aloud cried he!
Crash--smash--slap-dash! The whalebone snaps, the saddle seat