Part 2

EMBARRASSMENT.

Would you a Sov'reign's value know-- Let this be quickly done; To some dear friend or neighbour go, And try to borrow one.

Now drunkenness has had its day, Snob's ways and means grow taper; But why not friendship's call obey, And draw his pal the draper?

"Ellwide, this morning I've dropp'd in-- Our trade is very slack; For that I shouldn't care a pin, But I've a bill come back.

"Any loose cash you have to spare, I wish that you would lend; In these dilemmas I'm aware There's nothing like a friend."

Cries Ellwide, while his bag of blunt He hides from hapless Snob, "Thro' the whole house if you were to hunt You wouldn't find a bob.

"I'm sorry it should happen so, But poverty's no crime; You're always welcome here, you know-- Look in some other time.

STEP THE TENTH.

Oh! many are the ills of life, Past, present, and to come-- Debt, want of cash, a scolding wife, And last, not least, a Bum.

Ah! who can tell, but those who know Of poverty the pangs, When, floored by fate, to quod we go, In ruthless Bailiff's fangs?

"And must I, then, to prison go, "And leave my wife and cub? "Farewell to larking and to grog-- Farewell my Funny Club.

"The sun of jollity has set, "And ruin's day has risen; "Alack a day! that love of wet "Should drive a man to prison."

Clean'd out, and down upon your luck, 'Tis needless to complain; And publican and butcher Pluck Present their bills in vain.

"Now, blow my carcase, things look queer, "This here's a pretty job; "Two rare long bills for meat and beer-- "You've done us, Master Snob."

STEP THE ELEVENTH.

Oh! how delightful is the hour That sets the hapless Debtor free; When, rescued from the Gaoler's power, He breaths the air of liberty!

Dejected, pale, and worn with grief, Deserted by each sunshine friend, Where shall poor Snob obtain relief? How shall his prison troubles end?

Cheer up thy drooping heart, old boy. And bid thy partner dry her tears; On thee hath dawn'd a day of joy-- A brother and a friend appears.

He comes to ope thy prison door, To save thee in the hour of sadness-- Thy fainting spirit to restore, And cheer it with the oil of gladness.

With fortune's favours blest again, Thy sky no more is overcast-- From drink and Funny Clubs refrain, And take sad warning by the past.

So shall you shun domestic strife, And discord's angry tongue shall cease; And brightly, at the close of life, Your sun shall set in joy and peace.

STEP THE LAST.

Can this poor sinking wretch be he Of Funny Clubs the pride-- The man of cribbage, grog, and glee, Who ne'er his liquor shy'd?

Farewell to Mirth? Disease and Death Are staring in his face; And feebly now he draws his breath-- His pulse declines apace.

The Doctor gives no hopes, alas! The case admits no doubt, Thou dropsied victim of the glass, Thy glass is nearly out.

The star of joy has set in night, And drink has done for Snob; And neighbour Coffin, opposite, Is gaping for a job.

Unhappy man! the game is up; Thy moments number'd here; Thy Spouse hath brought the stirrup cup; Departure's hour is near.

The Drunkard's progress may be slow-- 'Tis always insecure; And, by experience sad, we know The termination sure.

THE PUGILIST'S PROGRESS.

STEP THE FIRST.

And, oh! it is a pleasant thing To mark the dawn of merit, And the progressive march to sing Of true pugnacious spirit.

The future Champion first observe, A thriving lusty sprout, Boldly and with unshrinking nerve, Attack his nurse's snout.

Truly 'tis early days to bruise; Yet manfully he strives And with effect he seems to use His little bunch of fives.

Go it, you hardest, hopeful kid! Bestow another teaser; Those active mawleys why forbid To tap your nurse's sneezer?

Go on and prosper in your race-- When childhood's hours are gone, Your after years will ne'er disgrace The promise of their dawn.

May milling honours soon be thine-- Soon may you learn to fib; And may your fame in history shine, With that of Spring and Cribb.

STEP THE SECOND.

Alas! since Cain and Abel's day, I tell it with a sigh, Brothers will cross each other's way, Turn to, and have a shy.

Where'er we cast our eyes around, Throughout this vale of tears, Bones of contention will be found To set them by the ears.

The bone, as here, may be a taw; With some, estates or wives; Some settle their disputes by law, And others with their fives.

'Tis said, a truly pleasing sight Are brethren that agree; But angry brethren matched to fight Are not so well to see.

How fearlessly our milling sprout Again has got to work, And sarving his big brother out, Has fairly drawn his cork.

Soon in a higher sphere he'll move, His pluck requires no spur; And none can doubt that he will prove An ugly customer.

STEP THE THIRD

The force of reason's out of date, I sing the force of fist, Which carries with it such a weight, That nothing can resist.

Then idle is the hackneyed chaff About the march of mind; The boxer in his sleeve may laugh-- He leaves that march behind.

To bruising fame aspiring still, Why should his ardour cool? Our hero has contrived to mill The Champion of the School.

And there in triumph he appears, With victory elate; While his opponent, drown'd in tears, Bemoans his hapless fate.

The tribute of our praise receive, For you have earned it now; And victory, ere long shall weave Fresh laurels for your brow.

And as we clearly see your bent, Be sure throughout your course, Instead of force of argument, Your argument is force.

STEP THE FOURTH.

At the true St. Giles's slang, Of eloquence the soul, Few worthies, I believe, can bang The Men of Dust and Coal.

Go it, your hardest, Dusty Bob, For once you're not awake; Our Hero soon your precious nob Will spoil, and no mistake!

Tho' a mere novice on the town, I'll bet he beats you hollow; Two Coveys are already down-- And 'tother soon must follow.

Egad! your topsails must be lower'd, I think you've caught a tartar; What! three to one, and yet be floor'd! My Pinks! what are you after?

Pursue, brave youth, your bold career, Victorious o'er each foe; To look at, tho' you're rather queer, You're very good to go.

Your sturdy frame and courage high Require a little science-- Then up your Castor you may shy, And bid the Ring defiance.

STEP THE FIFTH.

As candid dealing is my plan, I mention without blushing, You'll scarcely meet a fighting man That isn't fond of lushing.

And whether it is beer or gin, There cannot be a doubt, That when the liquor enters in, Discretion marches out.

Our Hero, from a row or spree Always the last to shirk, With a prime Fancy Cove we see Go manfully to work.

With all his skill and all his strength, The latter seems distress'd, And, meeting with his match at length, Will come off second best.

Then ponder well, you fighting men, Nor at the yokels scoff, Or by a novice, now and then, You may get polished off.

Then persevere, my hero tough, Your manly course pursue, For, with a foe, however rough, Your game must bring you through.

STEP THE SIXTH

Hail to the Ring, for I am one That love the Fancy's freaks, And Fate preserve the fistic fun, From Parsons and from Beaks!

For I remember well the time, The golden age of fight, When poor old Dan was in his prime, And Johnson's star was bright:

Then, disregarding punishment, How boldly they went in, On victory alone intent, Each did his best to win!

Then every British Pugilist, To all foul play averse, Settled a fight by weight of fist, And not by weight of purse.

Reviving those good days of old, Our gallant Hero see, An English boxer's fame uphold, And crown'd with victory.

So may you in full splendour shine, The Stars of fight among, And may the Champion's belt be thine, And may you wear it long!

STEP THE SEVENTH.

Hurrah! the Champion's belt is thine, So may it long remain! And when its honours you resign, Restore it free from stain.

And still your study let it be To steer a course that's right; As moderate in victory, As resolute in fight.

So, when retiring from the Ring, Your milling days shall end, Your praise the Laureate's muse shall sing-- You ne'er shall lack a friend.

Let honesty be still your plan, That when your race is run, The cheers of every Fancy man May hail your setting sun.

Tho' of the Pugilistic tree You've reached the topmost bough, Fresh honours still in store may be, To crown your conqu'ring brow.

O, let no crossing, while you live, Your bright escutcheon dim; And while this sound advice I give, I heave a sigh for Jem.

STEP THE EIGHTH

Our Hero's fighting race is run, His course of conquest ends, The brightness of his setting sun, Still cheered by all his friends.

Far pleasanter to tap his beer, And bid the liquor flow, Than tap, with punishment severe, The claret of a foe.

His manly conduct, and his game, Have proudly brought him through; And let all Cross Coves see with shame What honesty will do.

Still may prosperity increase; Blest with a blooming rib-- May happiness, content, and peace, Long flourish in his crib.

There may the Fancy Lads repair, A friendly bowl to drain-- To puff their sorrows in the air, And bid good humour reign.

And let the whining Canter see-- Creature of narrow heart!-- A man a Pugilist may be, Yet act a Briton's part.

STEP THE NINTH.

Retired from business and the Ring, We bid our gallant friend farewell-- His fame each Fancy Bard shall sing, And Fancy Legends long shall tell.

This Silver Cup, brave man, receive-- A tribute to your merit due-- One sigh of deep regret we heave, And kindly say--adieu, adieu!

And may the boon we now bestow Be hallowed oft with generous wine; And may the cup of kindness flow To gallant deeds of "auld lang syne."

Ye, who aspire to fistic fame, And wish a glorious race to run, Remember Belcher's deathless name, And how Tom Cribb his laurels won!

This maxim strongly I impress-- Let honesty your course direct, And, tho' you can't command success, You always may command respect.

If to my warning you're awake, Whene'er your milling days may end, A foe thro' life you'll never make, And never will you lose a friend!

THE SQUIRE CAUGHT IN HIS OWN TRAP:

OR

THE DANGER OF SPRING GUNS.

Heaven prosper you, most worthy Squire, And give you strength of nerve To guard your hares from poacher's wire, Your pheasants to preserve.

With game laws and spring guns prepare To bring those rogues to shame, Who with unhallowed hand shall dare To meddle with your game;

And set a close and constant watch Upon the vile encroachers-- So may your guns or keepers catch The sturdy lawless poachers.

What, oh! my Squire, can this be you O'ertaken by mishap! Capsiz'd by retribution due, And caught in your own trap!

Ah! fortune plays some curious strokes, And many a cunning elf, Who dug a pit for other folks, Hath tumbled in himself.

THE TEMPTATION OF OBADIAH

Oh, Damsels! hide those tempting charms! Kindle not thoughts impure! Nor from beloved Rachel's arms Her Obadiah lure!

Nay, seek not with enticing words My passions to assail-- Begone ye naughty dickey-birds, For flesh is very frail!

I cannot bear thy wanton gaze-- From pinching me abstain-- I must not walk in crooked ways-- Nor go to Elbow Lane.

But harsh to thee I will not prove, Stiff Quaker as I am; Truly, I feel my spirit move To treat thee with a dram.

To thy petitions I incline, Though I abhor the sin: Say, wilt thou have a glass of wine Or Hodges' cordial gin?

For I am fairly in thy power, And hence I cannot flee. Oh, Rachel! in this sinful hour I must not think of thee.

THE MAN WOT MENDS THE SOVEREIGN'S WAYS.

"The man wot mends the Sovereign's ways"-- What will the satire end in? The world may learn, with some amaze, A Sov'reign's ways want mending.

Say, Wellington, can this be you? His Majesty's adviser! Who dares so bold a course pursue-- The King's Macadamiser.

To say what next we may expect Would be as weak as vain; STRAIGHT-FORWARD dealing don't expect From lads in CROOKED-LANE.

What right have folks to understand The course that you've chalk'd out? Just show the weapon in your hand, And bid them, "Ax about."

King Arthur ne'er can do amiss, Then in your schemes be SOLO; And let your motto still be this-- "SIC JUBEO, SIC VOLO."

And if the precious Bridge Committee Have in expense been rash, Punish the upstarts of the City-- ABRIDGE them of the cash.

THE MAN WOT DRIVES A PAIR OF HACKS.

A Coach, your Honor?--Vaterman, Open the door, my Covey; To do vot's right is still my plan, And better vip ne'er drove ye.

To doubt my honour, what man dare? I'd floor him for his trouble-- Tho' ven I gets a drunken FARE, 'Tis FAIR to charge him double.

Then, as to galloping my prads, Paddington ne'er surpass'd me-- Tho' they're a set of knowing lads, Right as a trivet, blaust me!

I am a blade that never brags, And loves a cheerful cup; Tho' sometimes Coachee--sometimes nags-- Of course must be PULL'D-UP.

Of late, we've suffer'd in our trade-- But grumbling's of no sarvice; These vile infernal Cabs have played The devil with the Jarvies.

'Tis time to wash my gob with beer, Or summat short a dram on-- For vats the use of standing here, And pitching so much gammon.

KING BILLY'S BEER BILL;

OR,

THE THREE B.B.B.'s

Come, one and all, both great and small, With voices loud and clear, And let us sing, bless Billy our King, Who 'bated the tax upon beer.

_Chorus._--For I likes a drop of good beer, I--do's, I likes a drop of good beer, And ---- his eyes whoever tries, To rob a poor man of his beer.

Let minister's shape the duty on Cape, And cause Port wine to be dear, So that they keep the bread and meat cheap, And gives us a drop of good beer.--For I likes, &c.

* * * * *

Long may King Billy reign, And be to his subjects dear, And wherever he goes we'll wollop his foes, Only give us a skin full of beer.--For we like, &c.

SMELLING A RAT.

"Here, Nan, you hussy, bring a light, What mean this sword and hat? Something, I'm certain isn't right-- By Heaven's, I smell a rat!

"And soon the vile intruder's fate This cudgel shall determine, I'll make it play about his pate, And sacrifice the vermin.

"Doubtless, that hat must own a head-- That swords a sign of guilt, And, in the traitress to my bed, I'll plunge it to the hilt.

"Well for her swain if, to his side, His sword had still been buckled, In his heart's blood it shall be dy'd For making me a cuckold.

"My wrath shall hurl my victims now Down to the realms of Pluto! What! shall vile horns disgrace my brow, And I be dubbed Cornuto?"

Ah! why evince, you winning sex, Such naughty inclination? Sure you were only born to vex The Lords of the Creation.

CONTEMPT.

"Lord bless your Honour, stand a bob, Our's is a dreadful case: In Chancery we've got our nob, And cannot leave the place.

"Contempt has brought us, as you see, Into a pretty line-- God bless your honour, set us free, We're tired of Number Nine.

"How should a costermonger pay Attorney's bill of fees? We haven't got the blunt to-day, To buy us bread and cheese.

"There's hardly one of us that knows Why here he has been lugged in; And with the cold we're nearly froze, Kind-hearted Mr. Sugden."

You have the sympathy no doubt, Of General Solicitor; But vain the hope that you'll get out Through your illustrious visitor.

Yon luckless dame, in Jailor's claws, Grabbed with a stock of gin, For bold contempt of prison laws Will sooner far get in.

BIRDS OF A FEATHER.

There's a prime bit of stuff to go, No better, or I'm blow'd-- And narra wehicle I know Can pass us on the road.

Kem-arp, my cripple! he's the lad, To whisk along in style, He'll run agin the trotting prad And give him half a mile.

Who cares a farden for the veather, Or if vith rain ve're duck'd; Birds of a feather flock together, And some must soon be pluck'd.

Good judges may be taken in, And lose their blunt, no doubt; And tho' some say Dutch Sam must vin, Ned Neal may sarve him out.

He's at his proper fighting veight-- Heavier nor Sam by far; Tho' Sam's all right, and no debate, And fine as any star.

Vell, vin or lose, they'll both do right, 'Twill be a famous mill; I hope no Beak will stop the fight-- Lord save us from a spill.

A BEAK.

"Pray, Mr. Editor, what is a Beak?"

"A Beak," says Jem Bee, in his slang Dictionary, "is the Sitting Magistrate, or one who walks or rides abroad, seeking whom he may quod, or whose lawful (query, UNLAWFUL) amusements he may curtail."

Here we have a Portrait of a celebrated Gentleman of this description in the East, together with a couple of his customers, whose colloquy may be instructive:

"Jack, twig that ERE swag-bellied Cove, With wisage round and sleek-- You knows him, don't you?"--"Yes, by Jove, Vy, that's a bloated BEAK.

"Knows him! I knows him vel enough, And if I don't it's odd: A few months back that damn'd old muff Committed me to quod!

"Vat right has he our schemes to check? Vat right--the Devil fish him! Lord send he'd break his precious neck-- That's all the harm I vish him!"

DESCENT OF A BEAK:

OR

FLIGHT OF THE FANCY.

Ill-omen'd birds! Is this the way That you enforce the laws, To pounce upon your hapless prey With your unhallowed claws?

Your frown the fancy well may dread, The Ring will soon be no go-- Why should you take away the bread Of Oliver and Fogo?

To spoil our sport why should you seek, And for fresh victims prowl? By Heaven! I hate a crooked beak, And a "white feather'd" owl.

If to all discord you're awake, You need not travel far-- Let your sharp scouts their station take Within the Chancery Bar;

For there your Worshipfuls might hear Some orators harangue In terms so virulent and queer That flats would call it slang.

And even you the Great Unpaid, Are not _eadem semper_, But on occasions, I'm afraid, Are apt to lose your temper.

MY DARLING DUCK.

Let those love now who never loved before, Let those who always loved now love the more.

O thou, for whom my throbbing heart Beats with unceasing thump, Thou art the smartest of the smart, The plumpest of the plump.

Thy breath is fresh as April morn, Blushing in maiden pride, And pearly drops thy brow adorns, Like fat on bacon fried.

Fain would I woo thee to my arms, And by this tender chuck, I yield a captive to thy charms, My darling maid--MY DUCK.

A SELECT VESTRY IN DEEP DISCUSSION.

Ye virtuous and voracious few, I greet ye with respect, And every mark of honour due To worthies so SELECT!

Ye Parish Potentates, all hail! Long may your reign endure On richest dainties to regale, Wrung from the starving poor!

Keen be your stomachs, honest souls! May plenty crown your board; The means by which you swell your jowls The PARISH can afford.

Then be not from your turtle barr'd-- None but a captious sinner Would grudge to men that WORK SO HARD! A LITTLE BIT OF DINNER.

Your deeds so worthy of applause, I wish not to expose. Now go and wash your greasy paws In water of the rose.

A FLAT BETWEEN TWO SHARPS.

Alas, poor Flat! poor Johnny Green! I pity your sad case; Two precious SHARPS you're now between, And they are THOROUGH BASE.

Whate'er your cards it matters not, This is no time for grinning; For trust me, friend, you havn't got The slightest CHANCE OF WINNING.

Don't fancy you are deep enough, Tho' fool and rogue no doubt; You'll find you were not UP TO SNUFF, When these have cleaned you out.

And when you mourn your blunt all gone, This truth will soon be known; That HONOUR they don't count upon-- They win by TRICKS alone.

And cards are but the devil's books, Therefore be wise and shut 'em; And when you meet two SHUFFLING rooks, Take my advice and CUT 'em.

And ever be upon your guard, Or you'll be taken in; The ACE may be the highest card, But KNAVES are sure to win.

HIGH CHURCH AND LOW CHURCH;

OR,

THE RECTOR AND HIS CURATE.

----"The superiority of some men is merely local. They are great, because their associates are little."--DR. JOHNSON.

ANDREW AND HIS SPOUSE.

An Aquatic Excursion by _Steam_ and _Boat_!

The hero of my _story_, which is _true_, Was a free-mason of uncommon merits, Who kept the Mason's Arms; and there were few More _spirited_ than he in selling _spirits_.