And then so sociably we ride!--
While some have places, snug, inside,
Some hoping to be there anon.
Through many a dirty road _hang on_.
And when we reach a filthy spot
(Plenty of which there are, God wot),
You'd laugh to see with what an air
We _take_ the spatter--each his share.
So ya-hip, _Hearties_! etc.
[1: drive a hackney-coach]
[2: talk slang]
[3: horses; whip]
[4: money]
[5: drive]
[6: money]
SONNETS FOR THE FANCY: AFTER THE MANNER OF PETRARCH [Notes]
[_c._ 1824]
[From _Boxiana_, iii. 621. 622].
_Education._
A link-boy once, Dick Hellfinch stood the grin,
At Charing Cross he long his toil apply'd;
"Here light, here light! your honours for a win," [1]
To every cull and drab he loudly cried. [2]
In Leicester Fields, as most the story know,
"Come black your worship for a single mag," [3]
And while he shin'd his Nelly suck'd the bag, [4]
And thus they sometimes stagg'd a precious go. [5]
In Smithfield, too, where graziers' flats resort,
He loiter'd there to take in men of cash,
With cards and dice was up to ev'ry sport,
And at Saltpetre Bank would cut a dash;
A very knowing rig in ev'ry gang, [6]
Dick Hellfinch was the pick of all the slang. [7]
_Progress._
His Nell sat on Newgate steps, and scratch'd her poll,
Her eyes suffus'd with tears, and bung'd with gin;
The Session's sentence wrung her to the soul,
Nor could she lounge the gag to shule a win;
The knowing bench had tipp'd her buzer queer, [8]
For Dick had beat the hoof upon the pad,
Of Field, or Chick-lane--was the boldest lad
That ever mill'd the cly, or roll'd the leer. [9]
And with Nell he kept a lock, to fence, and tuz,
And while his flaming mot was on the lay,
With rolling kiddies, Dick would dive and buz,
And cracking kens concluded ev'ry day; [10]
But fortune fickle, ever on the wheel,
Turn'd up a rubber, for these smarts to feel.
_Triumph._
Both'ring the flats assembled round the quod, [11]
The queerum queerly smear'd with dirty black; [12]
The dolman sounding, while the sheriff's nod,
Prepare the switcher to dead book the whack,
While in a rattle sit two blowens flash, [13]
Salt tears fast streaming from each bungy eye;
To nail the ticker, or to mill the cly [14]
Through thick and thin their busy muzzlers splash,
The mots lament for Tyburn's merry roam,
That bubbl'd prigs must at the New Drop fall, [15]
And from the start the scamps are cropp'd at home;
All in the sheriff's picture frame the call [16]
Exalted high, Dick parted with his flame,
And all his comrades swore that he dy'd game.
[1: penny]
[2: man; woman]
[3: half-penny]
[4: spent the money]
[5: made a lot of money]
[6: cute fellow]
[7: i.e. fraternity]
[8: sentenced the pick-pocket]
[9: picked pockets]
[10: burgling]
[11: goal]
[12: gallows]
[13: coach; women]
[14: steal a watch; pick a pocket]
[15: Newgate]
[16: hangman's noose]
THE TRUE BOTTOM'D BOXER
[1825]
[By J. JONES in _Universal Songster_, ii. 96]. Air: "_Oh!
nothing in life can sadden us._"
I
Spring's the boy for a Moulsey-Hurst rig, my lads,
Shaking a flipper, and milling a pate;
Fibbing a nob is most excellent gig, my lads,
Kneading the dough is a turn-out in state.
Tapping the claret to him is delighting,
Belly-go-firsters and clicks of the gob;
For where are such joys to be found as in fighting,
And measuring mugs for a chancery job:
With flipping and milling, and fobbing and nobbing,
With belly-go-firsters and kneading the dough,
With tapping of claret, and clipping and gobbing,
Say just what you please, you must own he's the go.