Classic Poem

Good people be silent, Ize come from the West,
Trick'd out, as you zee, in my holiday vest;
The cause of my journey, Ize quickly unfold,
My journey, that's cost me vive pounds of hard gold:
From coachmen———and people of greater renown,
I had heard many stories of London fine town.

They talk'd of the Playhouse, the Wells, and all that,
The Tower, St. Paul's, and the lord he knows what;
Of shows and of fights, of queens and of kings,
Of the Abbey, the wax-work, and other fine things,
While I, in their company, look'd like a clown,
Because I knew nothing of London fine town.

Odsniggers, thought I, but this must not be zo,
Let it cost what it will I to London will go;
Zo I zaddled els Dobbin, zet out a zmart trot,
Determin'd to go while my fancy was hot;
And when I return, Zirs, Ize bet you a crown,
Ize talk with the best of London fine town.

My Dobbin and I in zix days got zafe in,
Tho' tir'd and dirty I car'd not a pin;
I rested, refresh'd, then boldly set out,
To zee and be zeen, and to gaza all about
Yet, Ifacks, many times I'd like to have been down,
They push'd me about zo in London fine town.

Howe'er I went on, and beheld in my range
Many wonderful things, that were strange, very strange!
Yet, under the rose, among many things good
There be zome that by me are not quite understood:
Zuch gaming! zuch wenching!——I am but a clown,
And these may be common in London fine town.

At last I have finish'd my fancy's desire,
The tumbler I've zeen, and the man on the wire;
The Harlequin too, all zo nimble and neat,
And the zingers that are more than nightingales sweet;
Zo Ize mount my old Dobbin and trot away down,
And zend you some others———to zee London town.