I’ve fasted, since dining at Buncle’s, Two days with true Perceval zeal-- And now must make up at my Uncle’s. By getting a _duplicate_ meal.
[Illustration: “OH MY PROPHETIC SOUL--MY UNCLE!”]
No Peachum it is, or young Lockit, That rifles my fob with a snatch; Alas! I must pick my own pocket, And make gravy-soup of my watch!
So long I have wander’d a starver, I’m getting as keen as a hawk; Time’s long hand must take up a carver, His short hand lay hold of a fork.
Right heavy and sad the event is, But oh! it is Poverty’s crime; I’ve been such a Brownrigg’s Apprentice, I thus must be “out of my Time.”
Alas! when in Brook Street the Upper, In comfort I lived between walls, I’ve gone to a dance for my supper; But now I must go to Three Balls!
Folks talk about dressing for dinner, But I have for dinner undrest; Since Christmas, as I am a sinner, I’ve eaten a suit of my best.
I haven’t a ram or a mummock To fetch me a chop or a steak; I wish that the coats of my stomach Were such as my uncle would take!
When dishes were ready with garnish My watch used to warn with a chime-- But now my repeater must furnish The dinner in lieu of the time!
My craving will have no denials, I can’t fob it off, if you stay, So go,--and the old Seven Dials Must tell me the time of the day.
Your chimes I shall never more hear ’em, To part is a Tic Douloureux! But Tempus has his edax rerum, And I have my Feeding-Time too!
Farewell then, my golden repeater, We’re come to my Uncle’s old shop-- And Hunger won’t be a dumb-waiter, The Cerberus growls for a sop!