A lecture on mimicry: as it was delivered with great applause, at the theatres in Covent-Garden ... To which is added Jerry Sneak's return from the regatta; and a lecture on lectures. By George Saville Carey.

JERRY SNEAK's RETURN FROM THE REGATTA.

I'M just come from 'Gatta; am drench'd like a hound, 'Tis twenty to one that I had not been drown'd, There were wife and myself, and some brave jolly boys, In a six-oar'd cutter, amidst all the noise, When a blundering broad-bottom'd country barge Came bearing down on us,—and then to our charge We were all overset; should surely have sunk, And have gone to the bottom if we had not been drunk; There was ne'er a one dead of us all, but my wife, But they tow'd her to shore, and soon brought her to life;

She was dead as a fish, and as pale as a clout, But they rubb'd her, and scrubb'd her, and roll'd her about, 'Till they made her to talk, and to walk, and to see, And now she's as blithe and as brisk as a bee, But we boarded our cutter, and ventur'd again, Determin'd to see, what there was to be seen, Such a wonderful possy of pennants and colours, Such splashing and dashing with oars and scullers, Skiffs, wherries and barges all huddl'd together, Such crying for shelter on account of the weather, The people on shore, who paid pounds for a seat, Got wet to the skin and were glad to retreat, While we on the Thames were so snug and so quiet, Amidst all the rain, all the racket and riot; There were courtiers and cits, and the gay savage-weavers, With fifes and with drums, with bones and with cleavers, The men were all red, and the women all white, Oh, what a beautiful, wonderful sight, The like I ne'er saw since born of my mother, Should I live 'till I die, I should ne'er see another, For should I have been drowned again and again, I'd have gone every day such a sight to have seen;

There's nothing in drowning you know now-a-days, They've found out such wonderful comical ways, Were you dead as a stone, you've no reason to fear, They'll bring you to life with a flea in your ear; The barges, some look'd like a body of gold, Some new ones were made—out of those that were old, With awnings of silk; with some figure or trinket, And many were covered—with nought but a blanket, With white-lead and black-lead, with paint and with pitch, Some large and some small, some ragged, some rich; Such a sight, such a noise, and such a sweet smell, Was never yet equal'd on earth, or in hell; But we got to the gardens, and landed at last, In hopes to partake of the princely repast, The tables were cover'd with many a thing, You'd have thought they'd set out a fine feast for a king; The aldermen fix'd 'em each man to his plate, One took off his wig, and then rubbing his pate,

Look'd eagerly round with a face of despair, For fear that he should not come in for his share, Then stuck his knife greedily into a ham, Unbutton'd his waistcoat his stomach to cram, Laid bones of fat capons in many a heap, That he eat and he drank till he fell fast asleep. I was hungry too, for as I am a sinner, I'd ne'er a spare minute to get me a dinner, So took me a plate, and then slily sate down, Determin'd to get me a bit of the brown, Was resolv'd to have it the risque of my life, In spight of that termagant teazer, my wife, But I'd scarcely got down a good mouthful or two, Before she came up, and made such ado, Cry'd I never should more go with her to a feast, Said I look'd like a hog, that I eat like a beast, I'd have look'd if I could still more like a swine, Would have swill'd all the night, but could get me no wine; And mine was the fate too, often out of twenty, There was nought but the artful appearance of plenty; To canal next I went, and there dipp'd in my hat To get me some water—there was plenty of that,

I heard some of the people most bitterly curse, But I took it like marriage, the better for worse; The people all round seem'd in wonderful po|ther, Did nothing but grumble, and look at each other. To me it appear'd like a scene of confusion, Without a beginning, or without a conclusion. All the folks that were,—Turk, Christian, or Jew, Seem'd plaguely puzzl'd to know what to do. By the fate of St. Peter, and well too they might, 'Twas the very first time they had seen such a sight, 'Twas a kind of rehearsal, where none knew his part, To act a Regatta's a wonderful part! There was none of them perfect, to be sure, it was plain, 'Twill be much better done when they play it again; But they all from that day have been fond of the water, Not a father or mother, not a son or a daughter, But what have sate off for a draught or a dip, To get themselves cur'd of the scurvy and hyp. Oh, were you at Margate, Southampton, or Brighton, To see them all sous'd—'tis enough to delight one;

'Tis sheep-sheering time, so they go there to feast, The first to be wash'd well, and then to be fleec'd. The townsmen have all got a wonderful knack Of touching your pocket, and stroking your back, But give them a chance, once, of taking a pull, At a fat golden fleece, and they'll have all his wool. If you would not be apt now to think it too long, I'd finish my story good folks with a song.

SONG. The BOOKS of BRIGHTON. Tune, Cold and raw the North doth blow.

I.

The country is moorish, The natives are boorish, Tho' ignorant, yet they are cunning, These are excellent places, If you're of false faces, With abundance of fleecing and funning.

II.

I wish you much pleasure, And mirth without measure, My wishes, I'm sure they are fervent, You may all believe me, I do not deceive ye, So believe me your most humble servant.

End of the Fourth Part.