The City seems give up to snow; which I can't say it greatly
embellishes it.
But, really, of all the dashed imperence,--s'posing of course as
they _meant_ it,--
The greatest is that of the Papers appealing to Me to pervent it!

Ah! it's a hinsolent Hage, and without no respect for Authority.
The cry of them demmycrat 'owlers is all for low In-fe-ri-or-ity.
Things is about bottom uppards, as far as I judges, already,
And if the porochial dignity's floored, what is left to stand
steady?

_Progressists_, indeed! Ah, _I_'d "progress" 'em, pack o'
perposterous hasses,
A regular pollyglot lot, breeding strife 'twixt the classes and
masses.
The masses is muck; that's _my_ motter, as who should have learnt
it more betterer?
BUMBLE could hopen the heyes of them BOOTHSES, JOHN BURNSES,
ancetterer.
Snow? Is it _me_ brings the snow, and the hice, and the
peasoupy slushiness,
Making the subbubs one slough? No! The Age is give over to
gushiness.
Parties as writes to the Papers is snivellers, yus, every one of 'em,
Barring the few as cracks jokes, though I own as I can't see the
fun of 'em.
Look at "UCALEGON," now, him as writes to a cheap daily journal,
Along o' the '"Orrors of 'Ampstead," as _he_ calls hy--wot's
it?--"hybernal,"