Part 4

Both men shook hands, and the prize belt, it straightway was brought in, There let it hang says Bendigo, till the best man does win, That won’t be little Bendigo, then Caunt he did reply, For I’ll belt your hide till you’re satisfied, then at him he did fly.

Is that the way? says Bendigo, here, take it back again, He made a job of poor Caunt’s nob, and hammered it amain. This furious work soon drew the cork of Caunt’s poor claret bottle, While Caunt returned the compliment, made Bendi’s ribs to rattle.

Twenty four rounds these heroes fought, none could tell which was the best, But Bendigo in the next round, struck Caunt on the left breast. Which made him stagger round the ring, and fall upon the ground, Says Bendigo, I’ll have the belt, and the four hundred pound.

But Caunt did boldly come again, and showed some gallant play, Yet Bendigo would strike a blow, and quickly get away. Until in round the eighty fourth, he gave some ugly blows, Which left his mark on the staring part, and fairly spoilt Caunt’s nose.

Eighty eight rounds were fought, when Caunt he could not rise, And all declared the Bendy cock had fairly won the prize. The Tipton Slasher now may come, but soon he’ll get to know, That he was not quite big enough to wollop Bendigo.

THIS fight scarcely comes within the scope of this work, but I introduce it, because it was supposed to be the last of Prizefighting. Unfortunately, the brutal sport has been revived, but it can never attain the dimensions and importance it enjoyed during the latter part of the reign of George III. and the whole of that of George IV. Gully was page to that monarch and M.P. for Pontefract, and Jackson was a gentleman, after his kind.

Sayers was of Irish extraction, though born at Brighton. Heenan’s parents were also Irish, although America was the place of his birth. The fight between these two took place on April 17, 1860, near Farnborough. They fought thirty-seven rounds in two hours and twenty minutes. Sayers was all but helpless, and Heenan, although full of fight--indeed, he ran _amuck_ of every body at last--was blind, when the police and spectators broke into the ring, and a more disgraceful scene was never witnessed, even at a prize-fight. Many noblemen and Members of Parliament attended this fight; in fact, many of the latter made a subscription in Sayers’ behalf, as also did the Members of Lloyd’s, the Stock Exchange, and the brokers in Mark Lane--clogged, however, with the condition that he should fight no more. Altogether over three thousand pounds were subscribed and invested for the benefit of his children, he receiving the interest for life. He became partner and afterwards proprietor of Howe’s and Cushing’s Circus--at which he lost all the money he had. He drank fearfully, and shortly afterwards died of consumption, aged thirty-nine. His tomb may be seen in Highgate Cemetery.

_THE BOLD IRISH YANKEY BENICIA BOY._

ATTEND, you sons of Erin, and listen with delight, To a ditty, ’tis concerning the great and glorious fight, On the seventeenth of April, when thousands went with joy, To see the English champion, and the bold Benicia boy.

_Chorus._

He is young, bold and powerful, no care does him annoy, He can boldly stand ’gainst any man, and fib away with joy; And he’ll beat the English champion, will the bold Benicia boy.

His father, an Irishman, from the King’s County came, His son is a bold Benicia boy, young Heenan is his name, The British ring, he did step in, and came up to the scratch, When Sayers, the English champion, found that he’d got his match.

It was early in the morning, before the cock did crow, Unto the scene of action these gallant lads did go. Both men did fight most manfully, to win each one did try, But they both appeared determined to conquer or to die.

At seven in the morning both men were on the ground, Heenan floored the gallant champion in nearly every round, The claret flew in torrents,--each other they did fib, There’s never been such a battle since the days of old Tom Cribb.

They two hours and six minutes fought--each proved himself a man, And neither of them would give in while he’d a leg to stand, But the fight was all in favour of the brave Benicia boy, When the bobbies bolted in the ring, and did his hopes destroy.

Tom Sayers said he soon would lick the Yankee doodle doo, But Tom found out at Farnborough, he’d have his work to do. I’ll bet a pound to half a crown, and stake it all myself, If they fight again, the Yankee boy, will carry off the belt.

When Heenan was in Derbyshire, preparing for the fight, They hunted him, like bloodhounds, in the middle of the night. But he was nothing daunted, but to the ring did fly, Determined that he’d conquer, gain the victory, or die.

There never were two better men, and none could be more game, They are both two gallant heroes of honour and of fame. Then fill a flowing bumper, and jovially drink their health, May the best man win and conquer, and carry off the belt.

When Heenan came to England, far from a distant land, They said he was a fool to come, to face an Englishman, But they were all mistaken when they saw the glorious battle, Heenan cooked the champion’s bacon, and made his daylights rattle.

OF course, it was only in the nature and fitness of things that Henry Russell’s extremely popular song, “I’m Afloat,” should be parodied, and of all that I remember, I think the following was most sung in the streets. The present _Cad_, or ’_Arry_, is bad enough in all conscience, but the _Gent_ of those days was worse. How Albert Smith did scarify him!

_I’M A GENT._

I’M a Gent, I’m a Gent, I’m a Gent ready made, I roam through the Quadrant and Lowther Arcade, I’m a registered swell from my head to my toe, I wear a moustache, and a light paletot.

I’ve a cane in my hand, and a glass in my eye, And I wink at the girls, demme! as they go by, Then lor! how they giggle to win my regards, And I hear them all say--He’s a gent in the Guards.

I’m a Gent, I’m a Gent, in the Regent Street style, Examine my wesket, and look at my tile, There are gents, I dare say, who are handsomer far, But none who can puff with such ease, a cigar.

I can sing a flash song, I can play on the horn, I like Sherry Cobblers, I’m fond of Cremorne, I love the Cellarius,[19] the Polka[20] I dance, And I’m rather attached to a party from France.

This gal I adore is a creature divine, Though devilishly partial to lobsters and wine, She was struck with my figure--and caught--with a hook, For I took her to visit my uncle the duke.

LOUIS ANTOINE JULLIEN was born at Sisteron, Basses Alpes, April 23, 1812. His father was a band-master, hence probably his love of music. He knew well how to cater for a popular taste, and to him we owe not only the Promenade Concerts, which have brought good music into the amusements of the people, but a vast improvement in the English orchestra. His band was the best of its time; indeed, he spared no expense to procure the very best instrumental and vocal performers. He died March 14, 1860. As a composer, dance music was his great forte, and he was the first to seize on the Polka, which was introduced into England about 1844. This dance became an absolute _furore_. Everything was Polka--Polka jackets, bonnets, cigars, etc. In fact, as one popular song ran--

“Don’t you dance the Polka? Won’t you dance the Polka? Joys of earth are little worth, If you don’t dance the Polka.”

_JULLIEN’S GRAND POLKA._

OH! sure the world is all run mad, The lean, the fat, the gay, the sad,-- All swear such pleasure they never had, Till they did learn the Polka.

_Chorus._

First cock up your right leg so, Balance on your left great toe, Stamp your heels and off you go, To the original Polka. Oh!

There’s Mrs. Tibbs the tailor’s wife, With Mother Briggs is sore at strife, As if the first and last of life, Was but to learn the Polka.

Quadrilles and Waltzes all give way, For Jullien’s Polkas bear the sway, The chimney sweeps, on the first of May, Do in London dance the Polka.

If a pretty girl you chance to meet, With sparkling eyes and rosy cheek, She’ll say, young man we’ll have a treat, If you can dance the Polka.

A lady who lives in this town, Went and bought a Polka gown, And for the same she gave five pound All for to dance the Polka.

But going to the ball one night, On the way she got a dreadful fright, She tumbled down, and ruined quite, The gown to dance the Polka.

A Frenchman he has arrived from France To teach the English how to dance, And fill his pocket,--“what a chance”-- By gammoning the Polka.

Professors swarm in every street, ’Tis ground on barrel organs sweet, And every friend you chance to meet, Asks if you dance the Polka.

Then over Fanny Ellsler came, Brilliant with trans-Atlantic fame, Says she I’m German by my name, So best I know the Polka.

And the row de dow she danced, And in short clothes and red heels pranced, And, as she skipped, her red heels glanced In the Bohemian Polka.

But now my song is near its close, A secret, now, I will disclose, Don’t tell, for it’s beneath the rose, A humbug is the Polka.

Then heigh for humbug France or Spain, Who brings back our old steps again, Which John Bull will applaud amain Just as he does the Polka.

A “HOY” was a one-masted vessel, sometimes with a boom to the mainsail, and sometimes not; rigged very much like a cutter. They are said to have taken their name from being hailed (“Ahoy”) to stop to take in passengers. The good people of that date were rather given to stay at home, or not go farther seawards than Gravesend. Ramsgate and Margate were long voyages, and in truth they were so sometimes; in rough weather they were sometimes two days or more making the passage. But there were other dangers, vide _Drakard’s Paper_, October 3, 1813:--“The _British Queen_, Margate Hoy, detained full of passengers, for having accidentally had communication with a vessel performing quarantine, has been since released by orders from the Admiralty. The distresses of the passengers partook of the serio-comic: at first provisions were very scanty, and they had no prospect but seven weeks of durance. This to the trippers to the seaside for a week would have been a serious affair.”

_MARGATE HOY._

NOW’S the season for laughing and jollity, Crowding together, all nations and quality, Margate, a hoi, as I halloa cry, All come on board while the sea breezes blow.[21]

Swift as an arrow from bow flies to target, Or packet from dear little Dublin to Parkgate, I’ll waft you all safe from London to Margate, And whistle a wind as we cheerily go.

Bucks who hunt fashion like quick scented mousers, Leave town, it exhibits no sport for ye now, sirs, So pull off your boots, and put on your trousers, To join the gay throng where the sea breezes blow.

Pretty men milliners, fresh water sailors, Smart, ’prentices, aldermen, actors, and tailors, Let me and old ocean a while be your jailors, I’ll sing, as he rocks, while you cheerily go. _Now’s the season, etc._

_CRYSTAL PALACE._

BRITANNIA’S sons an attentive ear One moment lend to me, Whether tillers of our fruitful soil, Or lords of high degree. Mechanic too and artizan, Old England’s pride and boast, Whose wondrous skill has spread around Far, far from Britain’s coast.

_Chorus._

_For the great world’s Exhibition, Let’s shout with loud huzza, All Nations never can forget The glorious First of May._

From every quarter of the Globe They come across the sea, And to the Crystal Palace The wonders for to see; Raised by the handwork of men Born on British ground A Challenge to the universe It’s equal to be found.

Each friendly nation in the world, Have their assistance lent, And to this Exhibition Have their productions sent; And with honest zeal and ardour, With pleasure do repair, With hands outstretched and gait erect, To the world’s great National Fair.

The sons of England and France, And America likewise, With other nations to contend To bear away the prize. With pride depicted in their eyes, View the offspring of their hand, Oh, surely England’s greatest wealth Is an honest working man.

It is a glorious sight to see So many thousands meet, Not heeding creed or country, Each other friendly greet. Like Children of one mighty Sire May that sacred tie ne’er cease May the blood-stained sword of war give way To the olive branch of peace.

But--hark--the trumpets flourish, Victoria does approach, That she may be long spared to us Shall be our reigning toast. I trust each heart it will respond, To what I now propose. Good will and plenty to her friends, And confusion to her foes.

Great praise is due to Albert, For the good that he has done, May others follow in his steps The work he has begun, Then let us all with one accord, His name give with three cheers, Shout Huzza for the Crystal Palace, And the World’s Great National Fair.

_SHEEP’S EYES FOR EVER._[22]

SAID Hodge, one day, to his son Ned, “Good news for Neddy,-- I think it’s time that thou should’st wed;” “Woat’s coming now?” thought Neddy. “Old age, thou see’st, creeps on apace, Old Time has led me a pretty long chace, And thou should’st wed to keep up our race.” “We’ll au’ll do what au con,” says Neddy.

“There’s farmer Giles’s daughter, Sue,”-- “Au knows her reet weel,” says Neddy, “Well, her, my lad, I’d have you woo,”-- “She’s but so so,” thought Neddy. “But tell me feythur, when au goa to woo, Whot au mun say, aun what au mun do, For if au knowe, au’m a Turk or a Jew, But au’ll do whot au con,” says Neddy.

Says farmer Hodge “Come, listen, my son,” Straight pricked up his ears, did Neddy, “And I’ll tell thee the way thy mother I won,” “Now for some fun,” thought Neddy. “I wink’d, and I blink’d, and I look’d mighty shy, At her, askance I threw a sheep’s eye, Till she no longer my suit could deny;” “Au’ll do it, by Gour,” says Neddy.

So, early next day, to a butcher he went, Right full of glee was Neddy, And three or four shillings in sheep’s eyes he spent, On the wings of love flew Neddy. And when to the damsel he came to woo, Out of his pocket some sheep’s eyes drew, Which one by one at the damsel he threw, “Au have hur, cock-sure,” says Neddy.

The delicate damsel stood with surprise, Still firing away kept Neddy, “What the deuce do you mean by these nasty sheep’s eyes?” “Ask my feythur abewt it,” says Neddy. The joke was so good, she could not withstand, And said, “My purse and money are at your command,” And dropt him a curtsey, and gave him her hand, “Sheep’s eyes for ever!” cried Neddy.

_CAB, CAB, CAB._[23]

I GOES out a cab driving, And oft the long day through, In spite of all contriving, I scarcely make a do. A Hansom Cab I’ve got, A handsome horse to trot, Cab, Cab, Cab, your honour, Cab, I’ll take you like a shot.

Now, If you’ll hear my ditty, I’ll tell how I was done, By a fat man in the City, Of two and twenty stone. I plied at Holborn Hill, Says he, to Pentonville, Cab, Cab, Cab, I want a Cab, Drive fast and show your skill.

My horse’s eyes I kivered, While he got in; you know If he’d see’d his weight he’d differed And perhaps refused to go. To Pentonville I went, When to me says this here gent, Cab, Cab, Cab, here’s some mistake, ’Tis Pimlico I meant.

To Pimlico I took him, My horse as you’d suppose, This job did nearly cook him, When again the check string goes. He says to me, Hallo! Hold hard a bit, go slow, Cab, Cab, Cab, you’re wrong again, Turn back and drive to Bow.

I didn’t like to grumble, But mounted it once more, All the way to Bow did trundle, Where he stopped me as before. Says he, when there he’d rode, This isn’t my abode, Cab, Cab, Cab, I think you’re drunk, This ain’t the Edgware Road!

Of course I felt vexatious, But I my temper kept, To Edgware Road, good gracious, I took him every step. My horse was quite done brown, And I began to frown, Cab, Cab, Cab, what are you at? I live at Horseleydown.

To Horseleydown I drive him, When my horse lay down--don’t grin-- But shelter none would give him, Think’s I, he’s got no tin! Where shall I now repair? To the devil--I don’t care-- Not there, I guess, says I, unless You give me my back fare!

_THE RUSH LIGHT._[24]

SIR SOLOMON SIMONS when he did wed, Blush’d black as a crow, his fair lady did blush light, The clock struck twelve, they were both tuck’d in bed, In the chimney a Rush light, A little farthing Rush light, Fal, lal, lal, lal, la, A little Farthing Rush light.

Sir Solomon gave his Lady a nudge, Cries he, Lady Simons there’s vastly too much light, Then, Sir Solomon, says she, to get up you can’t grudge, And blow out the Rush light The little Farthing Rush light, Fal, lal, lal, lal, la, The little Farthing Rush light,

Sir Solomon then out of bed pops his toes, And vastly he swore, and very much did curse light, And then to the Chimney, Sir Solomon he goes, And he puff’d at the Rush light, The little Farthing Rush light, Fal, lal, lal, lal, la, The little Farthing Rush light.

Lady Simons gets out in her night-cap so neat, And over the carpet my lady did brush light, And there Sir Solomon she found in a heat, Puffing at the Rush light. Then she puff’d at the Rush light, But neither of them both, Could blow out the Rush light.

Sir Solomon and lady, their breath quite gone, Rang the bells in a rage, determined to crush light, Half asleep in his shirt then up came John, And he puff’d at the Rush light, The little Farthing Rush light, But neither of the three Could blow out the Rush light.

Cook, Coachee, men and maids, very near all in buff, Came, and swore, in their lives they never met with such light, And each of the family by turns had a puff, At the little Farthing Rush light, The curst Farthing Rush light, But none of the family Could blow out the Rush light.

The Watchman at last went by, crying One, Here, Watchman, come up, than you we might on worse light, Then up came the Watchman, the Bus’ness was done, For he turn’d down the Rush light, The little Farthing Rush light, Fal, lal, lal, lal, la, So he put out the Rush light.

_IF I HAD A DONKEY WOT WOULDN’T GO._

IF I had a donkey wot wouldn’t go, D’ye think I’d wallop him? no, no, no! But gentle means I’d try, d’ye see, Because I hate all cruelty; If all had been like me, in fact, There’d have been no occasion for Martin’s[25] Act, Dumb animals to prevent being crack’d, On the head.

_Chorus._

If I had a donkey wot wouldn’t go, I never would wollop him, no, no, no! I’d give him some hay, and cry Gee! who! And come up, Neddy.

What makes me mention this, the more, I see’d that cruel chap, Bill Bore, Whilst he was a crying out his greens, His donkey wollop with all his means. He hit him over the head and thighs, He brought the tears into my eyes, At last my blood began to rise, And I said, etc.

Bill turned to me and said, “Then perhaps, You’re one of these Mr. Martin’s chaps, Wot’s now a seeking for occasion, All for to lie an information.” Though this I stoutly did deny, Bill up and gave me a blow in the eye, And I replied, as I let fly At his head, etc.

As Bill and I did break the peace, To us came up the New Police, And hiked us off, as sure as fate, Afore the sitting Magistrate; I told his worship all the spree, And, for to prove my veracity, I wish’d he would the animal see, For I said, etc.

Bill’s donkey was ordered into Court, In which he caus’d a deal of sport, He cock’d his ears, and op’d his jaws, As if he wish’d to plead his cause. I prov’d I’d been uncommonly kind, The ass got a verdict--Bill got fin’d; For his worship and me was of one mind, And he said, etc.

_SHOVEL AND BROOM._

THOUGH I’m but a Chimney Sweep I took a ticket To go on one evening to Dusty Tom’s room, Who dancing now teaches--he knows how to kick it, For which he has quitted the shovel and broom, For bow and the fiddle, pouchette down the middle, He’s quitted for ever the shovel and broom. The shovel and broom, the shovel and broom, He has quitted for ever the shovel and broom.

I got for my partner, Paulina, the daughter, Of Master Mount saddle, the Angel Inn groom, Her red lips and plump figure made my mouth water, And I fell in love, as ve valtzed round the room. O, sich a creatur! my eye, vot a creatur! A partner so fit for a knight of the broom, The shovel and broom, a knight of the broom, A partner so fit for a knight of the broom.

The whole of next morning I thought of her beauties, And I, my employment could hardly resume, Neglected, in fact, my professional duties, And valtzed in the streets, as I’d valtzed in the room. Till Jack Cragg the Carter, cried, Vot are you arter? There twisting about with your shovel and broom, Your shovel and broom, your shovel and broom, For I valtzed in the mud with my shovel and broom.

Soon after, her father called me from the Cellar, To a job at his lodging, a first floor back room, As Pauline was alone there, I ventured to tell her My love--but she vondered how I could presume, In the sphere I was moving, to talk about loving, And she turned up her nose at my shovel and broom. My shovel and broom, my shovel and broom, She turned up her nose at my shovel and broom.

To implore her I fell on my knees, but by Gemini, She spurned me and quitted the room in a fume, So bewildered was I, when my boy left the chimney, I called him Pauline, as he stood with his broom, Then ’cos the young beggar did grin like a nigger, I battered his head with my shovel and broom. My shovel and broom, my shovel and broom, I battered his head with my shovel and broom.