“Pulling down and building up is all the go,
And the scene changes like a raree show,”
Yet is it not disgraceful to the nation,
That Shakespeare’s house is doomed to mutilation?
The house in which that great man first drew breath,
A spot renowned before and after death—
Where pilgrims from every land have come,
To see his birth place, Nature’s learnèd home—
Where first shone forth a pale, an infant light,
A spreading brilliancy which still burns bright.
Oh, who shall have the writings on the walls,
Oh, who can save the house that’s doomed to fall?
True genius, of which we vainly boast,
By our rulers seems neglected most.
How we took the kernel, and threw by the shell,
Profanation, degradation,—Oh England, thou art a turdanation!

Time hallowed spot, could we call back those days,
When Shakespeare here in thoughtless boyhood plays,
Before his plays had graced the mimic scene,
Since which three hundred years have been,
Food for reflection, here the thinking mind,
“And good in everything” we ought to find.
From out the walls in fancy we might trace
Macbeth, Hamlet, and King Richard’s face;
And all the clouds that o’er his house have lowered
Looks frowningly, as ‘twere upon a coward
Who thus stands meekly by this sacred wood,
Nor seeks to save it for its country’s good.
But let it go, our Shakespeare needs no hame;
’Tis but a house! a house! “What’s in a name?”
Let it be sold, or in the sea be tossed—
His loved and mighty labours ne’er will be lost,
Altercation, dissipation—Time steps in and cheats the nation!

Great premier—Oh, King John—grant this our charter,
Why in this land should genius be a martyr?
The Tempest’s rising, if we fall we fail,
And time may tell you a sad winter’s Tale.
Come as you like it, make this house a treasure,
Do not divide it, Measure for Measure.
Methinks in sadness I can see the Moor,
Othello, looking blacker than before;
Therefore, good John, we look to you
To put this house in order, & to tame the shrew,
The very age and body of the time (reflecting mirrors)
Proclaims this sale a comedy of errors,
While England wastes her thousands tis not soothing
To say this is much ado about nothing:
For to the wise and thoughtful this would seem
A summer cloud or Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Moderation, preservation,—Is all we’re asking of the nation!

Robins, at knocking houses down so fond,
Exclaims, with Shakespeare’s Jew, I’ll have my bond,
Put down our hammer, Mr Robins, stop:
You take my house when you do touch the prop,
Hard-hearted man, such antique relics ridding,
With hammer soon to fall and looks forbidding,
Shakespeare by you has been puffed up and praised,
To sell his house you have a story raised,
And is it true this house is coming down
To be put on wheels and dragged about the town?
Can such things be, can it be so!
What, make this classic pile a travelling show?
Tis true, tis pity chaps from Yankee land
Are coming over with the cash in hand,
Blow wind, crack cheeks, their paltry lucre spurn
To what base uses may we not return,
Speculation—British nation, Oh, save the house from exportation!

Time was, and it seems but the other day,
When we could see a real Shakespearian play,
With Miss O’Neill, Siddons, or the great John Kemble,
Could laugh at Munden, or at old Kean tremble.
Macready does Shakespeare now with Kean’s son Charlie,
And Drury Lane holds legitimate with Harley,
Shakespeare inside has long been quite neglected
His statue outside looks forlorn, dejected,
For great folks now run after Grea[?] or All-bony,
Tamburini, Jenny Lind, or Taglioni,
Which John Bull’s dire indignation rouses
Till he exclaims “a plague on both your houses!”
Portia, Miranda, Juliet for him plead,
Preserve this house, thy potent spell we need,
My song is done, and your pardon I crave—
All’s well that ends well, if this house we save.
Determination, stimulation,—and Shakespeare’s house an honour to the nation!