The Land of Promise sure it is! 
But how shall I get there? 
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”

I’ve read about a fine Estate,
A Mansion large and strong;
A view all over Kent and back,
And going for a song.

George Robins knows the very spot,
But how shall I get there? 
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”

I’ve heard there is a Company
All formal and enroll’d,
Will take your smallest silver coin
And give it back in gold.

Of course the office door is mobb’d,
But how shall I get there? 
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”

I’ve heard about a pleasant Land,
Where omelettes grow on trees,
And roasted pigs run crying out,
“Come eat me, if you please.”

My appetite is rather keen,
But how shall I get there? 
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”

THE ASSISTANT DRAPERS’ PETITION.[36]

    “Now’s the time and now’s the hour,”—­BURNS.

    “Seven’s the main.”—­CROCKFORD.

[Footnote 36:  The exquisite wit and fancy of these verses need not blind us to their touching earnestness.  They might well be printed and circulated still in the service of the great cause of Early Closing.  The “Knight” mentioned was, of course, the excellent Charles Knight, pioneer and forerunner of all subsequent movements for cheapening and popularizing good literature.]

Pity the sorrows of a class of men,
  Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity,
No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen,
  But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality.

Oppress’d and discontented with our lot,
  Amongst the clamorous we take our station;
A host of Ribbon Men—­yet is there not
  One piece of Irish in our agitation.

We do revere Her Majesty the Queen,
  We venerate our Glorious Constitution;
We joy King William’s advent should have been,
  And only want a Counter Revolution.

’Tis not Lord Russell and his final measure,
  ’Tis not Lord Melbourne’s counsel to the throne,
’Tis not this Bill, or that, gives us displeasure,
  The measures we dislike are all our own.

The Cash Law the “Great Western” loves to name;
  The tone our foreign policy pervading;
The Corn Laws—­none of these we care to blame,
  Our evils we refer to over-trading.

By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn;
  We reverence the Church—­but hang the cloth! 
We love her ministers—­but curse the lawn! 
  We have, alas! too much to do with both!

We love the sex:—­to serve them is a bliss! 
  We trust they find us civil, never surly;
All that we hope of female friends is this,
  That their last linen may be wanted early.

Ah! who can tell the miseries of men
  That serve the very cheapest shops in town? 
Till faint and weary, they leave off at ten,
  Knock’d up by ladies beating of ’em down!