And, lo, behind! his sober Brother,
Striving in vain the laugh to smother.
That giggling Girl must burst outright,
For _Punch_ has now possess'd her quite.
While She, who ran to Chemist's shop
For life or death--here finds a stop:
Forgets for whom--for what--she ran,
And leaves to Heaven the bleeding man!
The Parish Beadle, gilded calf,
Lays by his terror, joins the laugh,
Permits poor souls, without offence,
To sell their fruit and count their pence,
And, as by humour grown insane,
Allows the boys to touch his cane!
Poor little Sweep true comfort quaffs,
Ceases to cry--and loudly laughs.
See! what a wondrous powerful spell
_Punch_ holds o'er Dustman and his bell;
And scolding Wife with clapper still--
The Landlord quits awhile his till,
While Pot-boy, busiest of the bunch,
Steals pence for self, and beer for _Punch_.
Look at that window, you may trace
At every pane a laughing face.
Yon graceful Girl and her smart Lover,
And in the story just above her,
The Housemaid, with her hair in papers,
All finding _Punch_ a cure for vapours.
E'en the pale Dandy, fresh from France,
Throws on the group an eye askance;
Twirls his moustache, and seems to fear
That some gay friend may catch him here.
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