E’en the boys in the street Do talk flash, you must know, And the real out-and-outers Do strut to and fro; While a _gemmen_ in powder From none will retreat, But will _peel_, a coal-heaver, Or dustman to beat. Oh, Pierce Egan! &c.
And since Life in London Has been all the rage, There’s nothing else now That will do for the stage; And parsons, and tailors, And barbers likewise Go to Spring, Cribb, or Belcher, To learn to black eyes. Oh, Pierce Egan! &c.
But this I must say To my friends in this place, That _chaffing_ and _milling_ Does puppies disgrace; And if they would know How such knaves may be undone, They’ll read that same book Which is called Life in London. Oh, Pierce Egan! &c.
J. Catnach, Printer, 2, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials.
St. Giles’s clock had sounded two, The moon was on the wane, And bitterly the north wind blew; In torrents fell the rain.
When like a goblin from the grave, A ghastly form appear’d, And thrice a grievous groan it gave, Thrice scratch’d its grisly beard.
Tall, wretched, shiv’ring, pale and thin, It brav’d the pelting storm, Without an upper Benjamin To keep the carcase warm.
Prostrate upon the flags it lay, Where Seven Dials meet; And “Och!” it cried, “is this the way A jontleman to treat?
“I soon must haste to join the throng On Pluto’s dreary coast-- I’ve given up my _spirits_ long, Now I’ll give up the _ghost_.
“Yes! I must go, at fate’s command, In Charon’s ferry boat, And change the _rattle_ in my hand For _rattles_ in my throat.
“That rattle which the prigs to catch Would other Charleys bring, _Watchmen_, we know, are like a _watch_-- Nothing without a _spring_.
“My lanthorn!--and the thought, I vow, The sob of sorrow draws; No _lanthorn_ can I carry now, Except my _lanthorn jaws_.
“With grief unfeign’d my heart is big-- The power of utterance fails, And losing thee, my old _Welsh_ wig, This tortur’d heart be-_Wails_.
“My night-cap red, which this poor head Hath screen’d from damp and dew, Like my poor cap, I’ve lost my _nap_, And I am _worsted_ too.
“Snug in my _box_ I bore the shocks Of drunkard’s jeer and scoffing; Now the vile _cough_ will take me off, And _box_ me in a _coffin_.
“To thee, my pipe, my bosom yearns-- Those moments, free from pain, In which I sat and smok’d _returns_, Will ne’er _return_ again.