HUMBUG CLUB CONSTITUTIONAL SONG.
Air, The Roast Beef of Old England.
This tastey gay town’s grown of humbug so full,
That ev’ry new day starts new matter to gull,
Credulity’s known by the name of John Bull.
O the humbugs of Old England;
How finely Old England’s humbugg’d!
Sham patriots profess, with a plausible grace,
The nerves of the nation they shortly could brace,
But pro bono publico means a good place.
O the humbugs, &c.
Here clergy the minister flatter and fawn,
Stick close to his skirts to secure sleeves of lawn,
And the curate’s old cassock goes weekly to pawn.
O the humbugs, &c.
The dunce is dubb’d doctor, sans sense in his head,
And fame unacquir’d is thro’ quackery spread,
With cures that are cureless credulity’s fed.
O the humbugs, &c.
The captain’s a compound of flash and cockade,
Cosmetics, pink powder, with curl carronade,
And his feats are confin’d to box-lobby parade.
O the humbugs, &c.
Now lawyers are licens’d their clients to cheat,
Trading justices equity tread under feet,
And rascally runners all rogu’ry greet.
O the humbugs, &c.
The stage, to amuse us, sings “Fal de Ral Tit,”
With “Che chow cherry chow, and cherry chow chit;”
And then, to humbug us, they puff it as wit.
O the humbugs, &c.
So now, brother humbugs, you all plainly see,
That few modern modes from humbugging are free;
Let’s distinguish our humbug with wine, wit, and glee.
O the humbugs, &c.