French National Guards visit to London
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The French National Guards
VISIT TO LONDON.
HOW charming does the ladies look,
Cried Farmer Bull, oh ! dear,
Because the National Guards of France
So numerous doth appear ;
In every part of London
They are roaming every day,
So pretty girls don't venture out,
Or you'll be stole away
Oh, lawk-a-daisy, there they go,
The ladies bawl so hard,
Oh, have you seen those handsome men,
The French National Guards.
Some say they come to see the Queen,
And tell some funny tales,
And others say they come to steal
The little Prince of Wales ;
And visit old Duke Nosey,
And for friendship on him call,
To dine upon a musket
And a pair of cannon balls.
You Englishmen lock up your wives,
Or you'll have cause to rue,
Tie them to the bedstead leg
And learn them parle vouz ;
Give them parle vouz Francee,
And say they must not trip,
With the man who has a lot of hair
Upon his upper lip.
The National Guards are clever chaps.
Both handsome and well made,
And with old Louis Phillippe
Carried on a roaring trade ;
It was they who made him cut and run,
And brave great troubles through,
A bawling out farewell to Fiance,
Frog soup, and parle vouz
There goes the fine female soldiers,
A rum old Duchess said ;
I will not live in service
Bawled out a servant maid,
I will marry a French soldier,
And go on board a ship,
For I love a bit of hair
That grows upon his upper lip.
Some yesterday went down the Strand,
In number just sixteen,
When a butcher swore by his greasy block,
That they were all marines ;
Then a shoemaker knocked down his wife,
And swore so help his bob,
If they wore leather aprons
He would take them to be snobs.
A lady said in Drury Lane,
And she her fingers smacked,
Oh ! lawk ! they arn't like our guards,
They don't wear hairy caps ;
Besides they haven't coats so red,
As through the streets they goes,
And they've no lumps of pipe clay
Sticking to their nose.
There was fifty-three down Holborn
A going, what a lark,
A barber toddled up to one
And swore 'twas Bonaparte ;
One said it was Prince Albert,
When he drew his cane so free,
And cut him till he made him holloa,
Parle vouz Franeee,
They tell me while the National Guard
In London roam about,
Our gracious Quean Victoria
Is afraid to venture out,
For fear if they should meet her ;
Old Farmer Bull will prance,
And take her off like one o'clock,
From England o'er to France.
Now ladies if you for yourselves
Have any kind regard,
Keep in, and don't go out to see
The French National Guards ;
For they will trim your whiskers,
And paint you if you do,
I If you don't mind they'll surely spoil
Your pretty parle vouz.
BIRT, Printer, 39, Great St. Andrew
Street, Seven Dials.
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