SONG XLV. BANG BEGGAR.
Young Lurk keeps a throstle whom nature has taught
A song which exceeds all conception or thought,
Too high for a letter-learned scholar to reach,
Yet, speaking with grace, I've attained a short sketch.
Last week when poor Will had his flogging receiv'd,
The bird lower'd his feathers apparently griev'd,
It wept for a while with head under its wing,
Then, as the ghost renders it, thus it did sing.
CHORUS.
At Bang-beggar's hall, in a Bang-beggar's cage,
I'll sing the Bang-beggar, tho' Bang-beggar rage,
A Bang-beggar's bird was ne'er heard from a bush,
To sing the Bang-beggar, like Bang-beggar's thrush.
I've sung loud two summers, till autumn came on,
Not hinting one crime that my master had done,
But finding it sin to connive at his ways,
I'll let out the cat, though she should end my days:
He seiz'd a poor lad they call Nottingham Will,
For crying thirteens, who thought it no ill;
Four days kept him starving amidst gloomy scenes,
Then banished and flogg'd him for crying thirteens.
When he wrought at cutling mere twelves made him sick,
And doubtless thirteens would have caus'd him to pick;
He joined the tame army, starve rather than work,
But getting disbanded they've made him Young Lurk.
He lurks for his madams, but these cost him pence,
Then seizes a tramper to pay the expense:
The premium got up for poor Will in his tears
Paid off Butter-Poll what was due in arrears.
Behold how he swells like a man of renown,
Tho' scorn'd and detested by most of the town.
In dignity far below ragman or sweep,
None should, save a hangman, his company keep;
But ignorance prompts him to swagger and prate,
Believing himself to be chief magistrate;
Unless the cat eat me I will not refrain
To sing the Bang-beggar till autumn again.
At Bang-beggar's hall, &c.
