Dialogue between a Turk and an Englishman


I just come from Turkey and fain Sir would know
What you English mean by a devilish good row.


It is bawling O—P— and barking like dogs
With sounding of bugles and croaking like frogs
Dustman’s bells ringing, and springing of rattles
Blowing of coach horns and acting sham battles
Hissing and stamping, at managers moaning,
Chronicle cheering — at gilded post groaning
Whistles and catcalls, and a large sheet of paper
Roll’d broad at one end, at t’other made taper
Which blown thro’ in style, most harmoniously growls,
Then screaming like parrots, and hooting like owls
The mewing of cats, the shrieks of scared lasses,
Neighing like horses, and braying like asses
Shouting “Clifford & Ridley & Winholt for ever”
“Support Great King George but Jack Kemble never.”
Against private boxes raising up placards
Turning out jews and all manager’s blackguards
“No Runners from Bow Street” loud rapping with sticks
“No engines, no trap doors — off — off no stage tricks”
Fencing and marching, with kicking and prancing
Over the benches to O—P— time dancing
“No private boxes — no ruffians on hire”
John Bull to insult should he O—P— require
With sneezing and laughing with crowing and coughing
Then “What do you want” at managers scoffing
In a playhouse these sounds united I vow
Make a most glorious, a devilish good row.