Fresh from the Lush-crib--roaring, staggering, Clipping King's English, swearing and swaggering-- Attended by his faithful Mentor, See Pug all ripe for an adventure. Already he is holding parley, Or rather chaffing with a "Charley--" Who, Tom and Jerry deeds reproving, Cries, "Gentlemen, push on! keep moving!" Ever prepar'd to spring his rattle-- The trumpet of the watchman's battle. See Mentor, bent on mischief, smirking, On Pug's excited feelings working. "Why does that 'Charley' make a fuss, Insulting gentlemen like us, Thinking to carry all before him-- Tip it him on the nob, and floor him! Two or three well-plac'd blows, no doubt, Will serve the saucy rascal out; And never fear that he can whack ye-- Why, damme, an't I here to back ye--?" Watchmen, we know, are oft loquacious, And PUGS, by nature, are PUGnacious. Sure as our Pug begins the fray, His backing friend will sneak away, Leaving him, as the safest plan, To fight his battle as he can. What ills on luckless Pug await: Black eyes, bruis'd body, broken pate-- And, cursing his unlucky plight, Consign'd to Watchhouse for the night!
O, for a Fogo's Muse to sing The glories of the Boxing Ring-- Where Peer and Prig, and Sweep and Swell, Mix in the motley group pell-mell: A scene of frolic, row, and danger, Where honesty is oft a stranger; For doubtful are the chances now Of triumph to the best man's brow. With equal grief and shame we tell it, 'Tis "How much do ye ax to sell it?" O, for the fighting days of old, When men were neither bought nor sold; When victory was the aim alone, And fighting crosses all unknown. Amid the rabble monkey crew, See PUG, our hero, full in view-- His brain with bruising science stored, Up to each move upon the board; How fluently he prates of flooring, Tapping the claret, fibbing, boring-- Of Chancery-suits and body-battering. Ogles sew'd up, and ivories chattering. Eager to bet--a Sharper now Has got our hopeful Sprig in tow-- Though Mentor, to his pupil true, Hints pretty plainly its a DO. "I'll book my man to win for sartin-- Come, three to one on Bill, at starting?" Though Bill is certainly the strongest, Perhaps Jack's wind may last the longest.
Hurrah for Epsom! Mount your prads, And start away, like knowing lads, To join the swarms of smiling faces That throng delighted to the races. O, what a scene of joy and jolity, Of prancing, capering, and frivolity! Where many a swell whose means are scanty, Bestrides his batter'd Rosinante-- Which, proud of such illustrious backers, Hails a short respite from the knackers. Go it! my heroes! man or monkey Mounted on blood, or hack, or donkey. Know many a youth, of spirit gay, Shall rue the racing of this day, And, mourning loss of cash and leather, Curse Oaks and Derby Stakes together. Where all the springs of fashion gay, Can Master Pug be absent? No. Still under Mentor's kind protection, He presses forward to perfection-- With the top Coves can prate with spirit Of all their racers and their merit; Their action, colour, age, and bottom, Where they were foal'd, and who begot'em: Can bet and hedge, make sure to win, And take a well fled'g GREENHORN in. Mentor, at distance, takes his seat, Intently gazing on the heat; Intending wisely, if he can, To line his purse, and fleece his man.