The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Voakes talk a deal of Fox, Burdett,
And Sheridan, and make me sweat,
To hear their lees—I doubt mun—
Zome cry mun up az thoff divine;
And if they do in manners shine,
I wish they'd carr't about mun.

169

LETTER I.

CONTENTS TO LETTER I.

A Lick at the City of London—the Cleanliness of the Londoners compared with Mr. Budge's Acquaintance in the Country, who admit Pigs and Poultry into their Parlours—The Population of London described by a stinking Comparison—Observation on the Ladies of London, with a wicked Suggestion of Mr. Budge—Mr. Budge imitateth Virgil in his fourth Eclogue to a Mister Pollio, who exclaimeth, ‘Paulo majora canamus’—Mr. Budge hinteth at the Middlesex Election—professeth to write the Truth, and nothing but the Truth—He complimenteth his Lordship on his great Connexions at Weymouth, and Powers of exciting royal Risibility—Mr. Budge entereth on the Subject of the Election—defieth Sir Francis Burdett, and maketh sure of Conquest—exulteth over Sir Francis, with a Quotation from the Devil to a Crab—

170

abuseth Sir Francis in rather an indelicate comparison—applaudeth Mainwaring for close Adherence to magistratial Duty, and his Excellency Governor Aris—A bold Attack on Sir Francis—the Popularity of Mainwaring at the Alehouses—the licentiousness and unparalleled impudence of Sir Francis's Mob before the Palace Gate—Mr. Budge's heroic Resolution—he vows to cudgel Sir Francis, and fight any of his Friends—Mr. Budge boasteth—praiseth Mainwaring's Speech in part, but not in toto—Mr. Budge quitteth the Subject of the Election for a Conversation with our ex-minister, Pitt—Mr. Pitt's melancholy Answer to Mr. Budge's kind Inquiry—Mr. Budge's fine original Comparison between the Court Game of Put, and the Country Game of Put—Mr. Budge commendeth Lord Rolle for adhering to Mr. Pitt, as he was the Author of his Lordship's unexpected Elevation.

And now, my lord, I've zot me down
To write vrom theese perdigious town,
Vill'd with more sin than grace;
Learge az Jerusalem, I'm tould,
Aye, or az Babylon of ould,
Zo wonderzom the place.

Ex'ter's a fool to't, let me zay,
And zo is Plimmoth ev'ry day—
The howzes high and big;
And in the parlours, too, zo neat,
Where all the gentry munch their met,
I've never zeed a pig.

No, nor a hin , making a rout,
With chicken rennin in and out,
Hunting about the room;
Nor goose-checks, no, nor gabbling ducks,
Flapping their wings all wet and mucks,
And quaakin vor a crume.

172

Things be quite diff'rent here, my lord,
They be, they be, upon my word—
Fine clath upon the vloors;
Fine chairs, fine pectures 'pon the wall;
Fine glasses in the sarvants'-hall,
Brass locks upon the doors.

O Lord, my lord, I'm in a maze,
I do so look about and glaze,
Just leek a stinking hare;
And than the vokes!—Lord, what a heap!
Thick as the meggots 'pon a sheep—
I'm always in a fair.

And than the ladies, zuch a rout,
Walking and gigling zo about,
All in their silks and lace;
And though zo fine, they make me stap,
Geeing my shoulder a small rap,
And zmiling in my face.

But meend, my lord, that I've be tould
Thoose gentry may be bort and zold
Leek bullocks or leek sheep;
And thoff zo handzom, vor small pins,
One now and then mert buy their skins—
How wonderzomly cheap!

But now, my lord, vor gerter things,
Vor now I'll screw my fiddle-strings,
Forsooth, a leet bit higher:
The vokes nere thoft that Middlesex
Would rear its head the curt to vex—
But the fat is in the vire.

And now, my lord, you may believe
I shaant be laughin in my sleeve,
And telling packs o'lees;
And yet, zo zur az I can spy,
From London people's mouths they fly
In swarms, like swarms of bees.

173

Therevore, whatever I shall write,
No soul shall zay it is not right—
They shaant zay no zich thing;
And if I tell the truth, and zo,
I'll gee ye leave, my lord, to show
My letter to the king.

Vor well I know that ev'ry day
You've zomething clever to'n to zay,
You be so wondrous frisky;
Vor when at Ex'ter , if you meend,
You often teel'd un all an eend
To laugh leek any pisky.

Well now, my lord, than to begin,
The curt voke wodn't gee a pin
T'ensure their man, Mainwaring;
When (who'd a thort it?) fath and soul,
Out leap'd Sir Francis vrom his hole,
And zot us all a staring.

But never meend, we baant afeard;
Vor, sir, az zur as I've a heard,
We all shall ha our wish;
Burdett wull zoon look dev'lish blue,
And zo we shaant much meend the crew,
No more than stinking vish.

174

But still to make shor o'the game,
The curt hunth out the blind and lame,
And mainly stir their stumps;
Zo that I think the game is shor,
If Fortune is n't a d---d old wh---,
As we have got the trumps.

Burdett waant do, my lord, he waant;
He can't succeed—he can't, he can't:
He conquer us, the scab!
He, that ne'er renn'd a race before;
‘Yes, you're a racer, to be sure,’
Cried the Devil to the crab.

Mainwaring is a clever justice—
In he, Lord, every body's trust is—
Burdett's a ratten meddler;
Volks shud tern round and zee their backs,
And meend old proverbs—Little packs
Become a little pedlar.

He zaid he did not care a lowze
About his setting in the Howze;
But that, my lord's, a hum:
Zee how he beggth and stirth his zell—
A fellow must love bacon well,
To kiss the old sow's b---m.

Burdett shud cast accounts at Coote's—
The counting-howze his genius soots,
And there he may be saving;
There he may sheen, and be a king;
A handsaw is a useful thing,
But never made for shaving.

Mainwaring is a clever man,
Doth ev'ry bit o'good he can,
Az ev'ry one believes;
Attendth the office very duly,
Never takth bribes—behaving truly,
And hangth a power o'thieves.

175

And then a hath a power o'spies,
To zee that no rebellion rise,
And markth down all black sheep;
And thoose he dooth suspect, he zens
To Aris, to vill up his pens,
And there in clover sleep.

They've got the sheriffs, whose damn'd droat
Approve their own poor ratten votes,
While ours they dare deny-all;
Cunning anew there—to secure ye,
A fox should not be of the jury
Upon a goose's trial.

And should Sir Francis git the day,
Lord! what will all the country zay?
Why, that it gitt'th a rogue—
Burdett and Middlesex agree!
Agosh! a marriage it will be,
Between a cat and dog.

Look to the public howzes all:
I've beed into mun gert and small,
Drink'd beer from ev'ry tap;
Mainwaring's health went always round,
With zich a noble clattering sound,
With zich a glorious clap!

Think o'their impudence, his crew—
They zet up zich a hallebulloo,
Close by the palace doors!
Just like a pack o'lyons roar'd,
They did, the dogs—they did, my lord,
The saucy sons of wh---.

I wish that I'd a beed the king,
I'd a made jobbernowls to ring,
And cool'd mun var ther bras;
The maids of honour should a got
In ev'ry hand a chumber pot,
And wash'd mun all leek shags.

176

Vokes said it was a burnin shame,
Disgrace, too, to the English name,
To zet up zich a howl;
The soldiers shud a help'd the crown,
And shet mun just like sparrows down,
And sent mun to the Dowl.

Zome zay ther gang have sense and larnin:
Why then, it is, to my disarnin,
Good wine in filty flasks;
Or, if you please, my lord, good beer,
Zich as you brew in Devonsheer,
Put into stinking casks.

I'll do my best to make mun zick:
I daant know that my oaken stick,
Wull do much execution;
But zich as 'tis, they're welcome to't,
And with my oaken stick to boot,
Good-will and resolution.

Agosh! I long to try a bout
With zom o'Burdett's rabble rout;
I'd quickly pug their guts:
I'd gee mun zich a lammin lick,
I'd make mun of elections zick;
I'd gee mun all the butts.

If courage wull but win the day,
By gosh, my lord, I'll nack away;
I'll zoon be in their beef;
Now if I could Sir Francis meet,
All by his zelf, and in the street,
Dam un I'd whap the thief.

On e'er a one o'mun, agosh,
A pack o'saucy trumpery trosh,
That stiddy nort but treason—
On zich rare fellows let me looze,
Zoon as I'd kill a duck or gooze,
I'd sliver ev'ry weasen.

177

I'll answer I'd nack down my zell;
Iss, to the ground, I'd waage, I'd fell,
A dezzin to my share:
When I'm put to't, Dowl take my skin!
Life's not worth a grammar's pin—
I'm mad az a march hare.

And that Burdett may vend perchance:
I think that we shall make un daunce,
Or hugely I'm mistaken;
Agosh! az I zee metters go,
And perty well I simm to know,
The rogues waant save their bacon.

Mainwaring made a perty speech,
As vur's my judgment well could reach;
And what he cou'd, he dood;
He made poor work o'Cold-bath howze—
The trap that wishth to catch a mowze,
Shud never smell of blood.

My lord, I giss you wish to hear
What vokes palaver here and there,
All about 'Squire Pitt's disgrace:
Ah, Lord! poor disappointed fellow,
I daant believe he gitt'th zo mellow,
Not zince he lost his place.

I zeed'n in St. James's street:
Close by his howze, we chanc'd to meet:
‘Ah! Budge,’ zaid he to me,
‘How doth Lord Rolle do, by the bye?—’
‘Hearty's a farmer, sir,’ zaid I—
‘And how be you, sir—hæ?’

‘Why, Budge,’ zaid he (but looking blue),
‘Thank God, that I be well enew,
Considerin ev'ry thing:’
He zaid it too in zich a way,
As plain as thoff I heard un zay,
‘Oh, Budge, I've lost the king.’

178

You know, my lord, when it wet weather
You and me play'd at put together,
The king would win the knave;
The queen, you know, cou'd do zo too—
Slam off a went, without more ado:
Nort could his bacon save.

But, Lord! in curts 'tis alter'd quite:
Ev'n I, with my poor blinking sight,
Zee quite a diff'rent thing—
Vur there, agosh! 'tis not the same;
For there they backwards play the game,
And knaves can win a king.

I speak not in 'Squire Pitt's despraise,
Because you simm'd to leeke his ways,
Though by zum vokes abhorr'd—
You, to be shore, wan't let'n down,
Who did so worry the poor crown
To dub a gert lord.

For hadn't it beed for Mister Pitt,
I daant think we had got the wit
To get the pretty feather.
And let me zay t'ye, fath and soul,
You still had been but poor 'Squire Rolle,
Nether one thing nor tether—

That is, my lord, nothing at all,
Nor high, nor low, nor gert, nor small;
In short, what vokes call fudge.
And now, my lord, by the next post,
I'll write if things be winn'd or lost—
Your sarvant, Joseph Budge.

In many of the farm-houses and villages, pigs and poultry are generally parlour-boarders.

Hen.

Might.

Little.

When his majesty did the city of Exeter the honour of a visit, Mr. Jan Rolle (afterwards his lordship) endeavoured to crack a few jokes in the royal presence, to display to the people his familiarity with crowned heads: one was most unsuccessful, as it carried stronger marks of impudence than wit; for, on introducing a country clergyman at the levee, ‘An please your medgesty,’ cried the 'squire, ‘Passon ---, a very good subject, and, leek your medgesty, hath made a howzevull o'cheldren.’

To place in a state of much expectation.

A small oath.

Violent.

Beat.

179

LETTER II.

CONTENTS TO LETTER II.

Mr. Budge proudly triumpheth in the Prospect of Success—is inclined to curse Sir Francis and his Party—is jealous of Mr. Fox, Lord William Russel, and Sheridan—describeth the Cavalcade—he is witty on the Virtues of the Patriots—Mr. Budge is violent towards the Ladies that wished well to the Cause of Sir Francis—Very ungallant is Mr. Budge indeed—he enumerateth the Duties of Women—Mr. Budge commenceth an Attack on the charming Duchesses that employed their Interest for Sir Francis—draweth a Comparison between the Duchesses and a great Lady and a great Man—He giveth an Account of an odd Fellow that came every Day, in a Lawyer's Dress, before the Hustings, and harangued the Counsellors of Mainwaring, viz. Sylvester and Maddox, and Mr. Mainwaring the worthy Candidate himself—Mr. Budge greatly hurt at the Exhibition of Irons, Whips, &c. the insignia of his Excellency Governor Aris, of the Cold-bath-fields Goal, commonly called the Bastille—he wisheth this Bastille the Fate of his great Brother and Predecessor of France—Mr. Budge displeased at his Treatment

180

by the Mob—The Aperture of Mr. Budge's loyal Mouth unfortunately filled with a Cabbage-stump—treated in a most ungentlemanly Manner—hustled—robbed—He reproveth the Mob—Mr. Budge's Conversation with one of the Mob, more consequential than edifying—Mr. Budge concludeth in a Strain of Exultation and Defiance, with less Sublimity than Isaiah on the Downfall of the King of Babylon, but with equal Rage and Abuse.

181

Things go on zwimmingly, my lord:
Dree hundred votes a head we've scor'd—
Dree hundred! aye, and more.
Had I ten thousand pounds, d'ye zee,
I wuddn't one brass vardin gee,
To make th' election shore.

To help a lame dog, there's that Fox,
And there's Lord William, with a p---x,
And Sheridan the Devil—
Aye, let mun go—but poor Burdett
Wull vend to's cost, that zich a set
Wull gee his corn the wevil.

They ride to Brentford to harangue—
Lord! how I lang to shet the gang,
They make me look dam zour;
With gert good will vor theese black job,
I'd take my wetch out o'my fob,
And cuss mun by the hour.

In coaches vull as they could stuff,
Damn mun, off zot the blue and buff,
Parading droo the Strand;
Zich holding up of derty paws,
Zich waving hats, and zich huzzas,
Enough to stun the land!

182

With mizzick, too, G*d d---n their bones,
Crowds, horns, and organs, with their groans,
Zich as we hear in charch;
Now, had they ax'd me vor a tune,
Well had Iss vitted mun, and zoon,
I'd gid mun the Rogue's March.

Amongst the derty, lowzy crew,
There's zich a touse and hallibulloo,
Enew to stun ould Nick;
With zich a mob, too, to their tails,
Peek'd, I suppose, vrom all the jails,
Leek meggots all zo thick.

Vokes talk a deal of Fox, Burdett,
And Sheridan, and make us sweat
To hear their lees —I doubt mun—
Zome cry mun up as thoff divine;
And if they do in manners shine,
I wish they'd carr't about, mun.

Peepel should practise what they know;
Or where's the use of it, I trow?
No, no, I'm not the fool
To think that they have much to spare;
Vor he that goeth vor manners there,
Goeth to a goat vor wooll.

The women, too, the bissy jades!
Zome o'mun gentlevokes, zome trades,
Push vore their polls from windors,
And toss their hankitchers about:
I wish I had the rabble rout
One minute in my grinders.

I'd gee the devils zich a squeeze,
I'd make mun look zo small as meeze ,
Well chow'd by our ould cat.
Iss, iss, I'd gee mun zich a grip,
I'd bang mun well, had I a whip,
I'll warrant mun vor that.

183

Iss, iss, I'd make the madams squall,
I'd lerrick mun—iss, one and all—
I'd pent their pretty skins.
What bissens have they to rant and stare,
And hoist their nackens in the air,
And show their nasty grins?

What bissens ha wimmen wey election,
That should be always in subjection,
And know we be their lords?
Zwunds, let mun meend their howze and stitching,
And net be vor election itching—
We want none o'their words.

Their bissens is to wash and mend,
And car and vetch, and husbands tend,
Make puddins, pies, and tarts;
Zee that their maidens meend their broom,
To zweep the spiders, cleanse the room,
And wash the shefts and sharts.

The ditchesses be mainly blamed;
Vokes zay they mert be all asham'd
To trollop with the men.
My lord, vor sartinty I know
Thoose ditchesses must never show
The nose at curt agen.

If well they wud their zels demean,
Let mun take pattern from the ------,
That jewel o'a oman;
Zo good, zo generous to the nation;
Zo kind to ev'ry poor relation;
A thing zo main uncommon.

In Windsor when there was zich bustle
About a member, zich a tussel,
Did she go round to vokes,
And zay, ‘If you daant vote for Powny,
Meend, not a vurdin of my money
Shall go to you vor smocks?’

184

Did she run round her zell, and maids,
To shopkeepers and wother trades,
And moil and make a fuss?
Zay to the mercer, ‘Maister Inkle,’
And to the vishman, ‘Maister Wrinkle,
‘You geef your vote for us.

‘We be great peeples, Maister Inkle;
We be rish peeples, Maister Wrinkle,
And haf a goote long puss;
And dan we haf grete pow'r, mine Gote!
Now dink 'pon diss, and give your vote,
Vid out more vords, vor us.’

Or did vokes hear zich zounds az thoose,
‘Must vote, must vote, mustn't refuse:
No, no—hæ, hæ—no, no,
Won't buy—won't buy a broom or mop—
Hæ, hæ, won't recommend your shop—
My borough—must, must be so.

‘My borough this, hæ, hæ, Tape, Tape,
Shan't come and buy my coat a cape,
Shan't purchase at your shop—
Must vote for Powny—must, must vote,
Or mind I never buy a coat,
No, no, man—not one slop.’

My lord, you tould me in your laast,
You wish'd to know 'bout all that past.
My lord now you shall hear:
A fellow, but we daant know who,
Belonging to the wother crew,
Com'd vore, and talk'd dam queer;

Com'd vore the hustins ev'ry day,
And leek a lawyer talk'd away,
In a lawyer's wig and gown;
Made our poor counsel cursed zick,
Tich'd Counsellor Maddox to the quick,
And nack'd Sylvester down.

185

Zay'd to Mainwaring zich hard things,
Zwear'd that he was a tool o'kings,
And kiss'd the tail o'Pitt;
That az vor glory, or disgrace,
Az long as he could hold his place,
He did not care a nit.

That az vor Englishmen he thort,
'Twas best their commons should be short,
A gang of saucy knaves;
That geeves and whips, and little met,
Wud manners (what they wanted) get,
Full good enew vor slaves.’

The varmint had got wit at will,
And gid the lawyers zich a pill,
Though a wasn't worth a shilling;
I must zay this, I vow to G*d,
A was zo comical a toad,
He zot us all a grilling.

Maddox stood buff, and stood it out,
Though soundly pull'd, fath, by the snout
He veel'd zom ugly blows:
But poor Sylvester, he poor soul,
Just leek a mowze, sneak'd to his hole,
And never show'd his nose.

I wish your lordship had be there,
To zee the saucy dog, and hear
Zome lees, and zome things true;
His wit was leek a two-edged sword,
And I do really think, my lord,
He was a match vor you.

My lord, it nearly tern'd my brains,
To zee the vetters, whips, and chains,
They carr'd about the town;
Sound of Bastille mak'th menny quiver,
And petrifieth their very liver—
I wish the place was down.

186

Vor why?—becaze 'tis zich a name,
I shud not grieve to zeet in flame.
I'm cruelly afeer'd
The chains wull do the cause no good:
They push'd mun nearly as they coud
Up to Mainwaring's beard.

My lord, I daant leek Lendon ways:
Vor hap'ning 'mongst the mob to praise
Mainwaring—zounds, at once,
One scoundrel gid my tail a kick,
Anether, with a slammin stick,
Com'd souse upon my sconce.

'Tis true my pate was roundly maul'd:
I open'd than my mouth and bawl'd
Mainwaring and his cause;
Bevore I clos'd my mouth again,
A rascal ramm'd, with mert and main,
A colestump in my jaws.

And than they hustled me about,
Drode me along, the rabble rout,
And what was worse—odd chuck it!
Zoon as I got up vrom the ground,
Where I lied sprawling, Lord! I vound
The dogs had peek'd my pucket.

My puckethankitcher and gloves
I neatly lost between their shoves—
Confound mun with a p*x!
A corkscrew and a penny bun,
And, ah! the worst of all the fun,
My poor old backy-box.

‘You ought to be asham'd,’ zaid I,
To one o'mun that stude close by,
‘To sarve one zich a trick.
‘Wud Ex'ter vokes ha sarv'd one zo?’
Quoth I to'n—‘no, they wud'n—no—
They'd zooner zee Old Nick.’

187

Zo then they laugh'd—'pon which, quoth I,
‘I'll tell my lord of this by'n by,
And zend ye all to jail.’
Quoth one, and winking with his eye,
‘What lord dost mean?’—‘Lord Rolle,’ zaid I;
‘He'll make ye drap your tail.’

‘Lord Rolle,’ quoth he, ‘may come and kiss
‘My’—‘what?’ quoth I.—Quoth he, ‘Why this,’
And then he tack'd his rump.
Zaid I, ‘I'll tel'n o't, be ashor'd;
Dam me if I daant tell my lord,
And he shall make thee jump.’

Zo zays the rogue, ‘With all my soul,
And give my sarvice to Lord Rolle—
I've heerd a deal about'n.’
Zaid I, ‘No harm, ye dog, dost zee.’
‘No, nor no good, by G*d,’ zaid he.
Lord! how I lang'd to clout'n!

But let mun bluster it away,
Let the poor jackasses all bray,
Their bacon waant be saa'd;
Their poverty is plain anew,
The devils wull zoon ha all the crew:
Bald pates be quickly shav'd.

Stap, stap a leet, and we shall zee
Who will the lords and measters be—
They'll ha no cause to laugh;
There wull be bellowing enow,
Egosh! exactly leek a cow,
Just parted vrom her calf.

188

POSSKREP.

WULL ye be pleas'd, my lord, to go,
Jest run to G--- L---, or zo,
You know 'tis but a stap;
And ax the sarvants, they can tell,
If any old cloaths they've got to zel,
Becaze I've got a chap.

Or candle-eends, or some zich thing,
Belonging to the ------ or ------,
Wud vet a perty penny.
Pray trat away, and ax my lord,
And be zo kind to zend me word,
My lord, if there be enny.

I'm told old gowns, zome good, zome bad,
And cheap too, may zometimes be had,
Smocks, hankitchers, and shoes;
And wother sorts of ladies geer,
Little the worse, I'm told, vor wear,
That vokes may peek and chuse.

Pray go, and try your hand, my lord:
Ax lady ---, and zend me word,
Vor all I zay is true;
I want zome finery for my dame;
Zo that, my lord, I'll do the same
Vor Lady Rolle and you.

And could I get a king's old wig,
Lord! I shud look zo fine and big,
The parish wud zo stare!
And, as the man's upon the spot,
Ax Curnel Gwyn if he hath got
Zome babby-cloaths to spare.

189

I think I have no more to zay,
But that my dame and I both pray
Vor yours and madam's soul;
And hopes (if we may crack a joke)
That Ex'ter and the Devonshire voke
May never want a Roll.

Shoot.

Lies.

Mice.

Beat.

Business.

Handkerchiefs.

Vermin.

190

LETTER III.

CONTENTS TO LETTER III.

Mister Budge seemeth in a most terrible Funk about the Election—prognosticateth woefully—Mister Budge talketh mercifully of his Excellency Governor Aris—repeateth a short and pithy Speech of the Mob to the Soldiers that guarded Governor Aris's Castle, also the loyal and brave Reply of the Soldiers to the Mob, proving themselves to be a Sort of State-machines—Mr. Budge painteth the Abhorrence of the People to Governor Aris's Dwelling and Jail, and his Mode of Treating his Prisoners—Mr. Budge very impartially summeth up the Matter, and subscribeth to the Punishment of Governor Aris, provided his Guilt can be fully established—the same Impartiality likewise in respect to Mr. Pitt, the great Friend and Patron of Governor Aris—Mister Budge breaketh out into Strains of Pity—Mister Budge most naturally professeth a Scepticism, that is to say, doubts, concerning the Cruelty of Governor Aris—Mister Budge most heroically supporteth Mister Mainwaring, and, with his poetical Cat-'o-nine-tails, belaboureth the Backs of

191

his Calumniators—he triumpheth in his own Discernment, and becometh positively vain-glorious—Mister Budge descanteth sensibly on the Fallibility of Rumour, and the sad Consequence of believing every idle Report—bringing in Kings and Bishops, and the Lord knows who—Mister Budge talketh of Scandal—not even the most virtuous, the most meek, the most humble, the most œconomical Lady of the Land, free from the Aspersions of Scandal—Mister Budge counselleth Sir Francis, and concludeth most epigrammatically.

192

O Lord! my lord! Lord, what d'ye think?
Our cause, I fear, beginn'th to stink,
But God Allmerty knows;
'Tis thort by menny that Burdett
Will gee the justice a d---mn'd sweat,
And zend'n to the crows.

Zome zay Burdett wull git the field—
The mob vor'n all be mad and weeld,
They doat upon'n zo;
Because he mounth the stage, and rails,
Forsooth, against bastilles and jails,
And wanth to lye mun low:

And nack up Aris, if they can,
Zome zay a very honest man,
That keep'th a sharp look out;
That watch'th his pris'ners leek a hawk,
And dothn't care a fig vor voke—
All very right, no doubt.

'Tis zaid his gaolbirds all complain,
And daant admire his whip and chain,
Nor hole as black as soot;
But Aris swearth they may be damn'd,
Into the hole they shall be ramm'd,
If he think'th rert to do't.

193

Mob wanth to tear un all to rags,
And pent ‘No bastille’ 'pon their flags,
And just leek tigers growl;
And want to gee the jailbird dogs
The vlesh of cows, and calves, and hogs,
And dainty vish and vowl.

And than they to the zoldiers zaid,
‘O ye gert fools!—O! what a head,
To guard theese place—vor who?
Why if ye dare speak out your meend,
In a veew minutes ye wull vend,
The place was bilt for you.’

But ‘'twudn't do:’ the zoldiers zed,
‘That by their trade they got their bread,
And liv'd upon the land.’
And than they answer'd very well,
‘That if they were zent off vor Hell,
They must obey command.’

And yet the people cuss bastille;
Zomthing about that place they veel,
That gall'th and mak'th mun shiver;
In short, my lord, they hate the name,
And wish it, vrom their souls, in flame,
And damn the poor man's liver.

Aris, the governor they call'n,
Their itching vingers itch to maul'n,
They zay he is zo cruel;
Stuff'th pris'ners in a vile old hole,
Cramm'th men together, cheek by jowl,
And geeth mun water-gruel:

Flogg'th mun az t'were zo menny dogs,
Call'th mun zich names, az though t'were hogs;
And this he doth vor sport.
Now this is what the people zay;
It maant be true, and yet it may:
Then let the knave be cort.

194

Than let un veel what wothers veel,
In theese most horrible bastille,
And drink as wothers drink;
And eat the trade that wothers eat,
And sweat in holes as wothers sweat,
And stink as wothers stink.

If Aris be that cruel dog,
E'en let'n suffer vor a rogue,
A potcrook let'n veel:
I'd gee'n of whip his belly vull,
I'd make un bellow leek a bull,
And sken un leek an eel.

And if 'Squire Pitt upholdth us in it,
I'd run and tear away, theese minute,
His howze about his ears:
I grieve to think on the poor souls
That groan amidst their dirty holes,
And wash mun with their tears.

But I daant take it in my head
To credit ev'ry thing that's zed—
No, no, all is not Gospel;
People tell hummers ev'ry hour,
Vor which, if I had got the pow'r,
I'd cool mun in a hoss pool.

Maister Mainwaring's much abuz'd,
Most greeviously for things accus'd,
By all the dowlish pack;
E'en let mun all their poison spit,
My lord, there is no wooll zo whit,
That a dyer caan't make black.

They try to make the world believe,
He glorieth in a whip and geeve,
And things that can torment;
And when that Aris is attack'd,
He's always by Mainwaring back'd,
And so scap'th punishment.

195

I know who's who, and what vokes be;
I haan't yet lost the pow'r to zee,
No more than that o' veeling;
I never make a gooze a swan—
A thief may be a gentleman
That git'th estates by stealing.

I can distinguish straw vrom hay,
Can tell a cuckoo from a jay,
A peacock vrom a starling;
Dogs vrom a pig that's in the looze,
A Christian vrom a pack o' Jews,
A yaffer vrom a yarling.

I baan't so maz'd to put belief
In ev'ry dirty, lying thief—
It mak'th my hair to bristle.
Zom peeple gee themselves gert airs,
Zay ev'ry thing bezides their pray'rs,
And thoose, agosh! they whistle.

If one believ'd in ev'ry thing,
God bless his majesty, the ------,
He'd look a little blue;
If zich be martyrs to a hum,
Lord! then, my lord, what wud become
Of zich as me and you?

And than how wud our bishops stand,
And half the parsons of the land?
Scandal's a fine keen blade;
He meet'th with zomething ev'ry day,
And mainly cutt'th and hack'th away,
And simm'th to know his trade.

That vartuous lady, our good ------,
Zo humble, and so neat and clean,
Caan't even 'scape the mucks;
The world wull always zomething zay,
To take a body's name away—
Oddrat their lying chucks!

196

But zee! with all their leeing art,
They dare not vall upon her heart,
But vall upon her nose;
About her handkitchers and stuff,
And aprons vull of dirty snuff,
And how her nose she blows.

And than they talk of poor relations,
And tell zich lees, Lord! nations, nations,
O Lord! iss—lees galore —
Lees that a body almost veels,
Making one's hair stand up leek queels
Upon a hadgy-bore.

Let Burdett meend his countin-howze,
And know his zelf to be a mowze,
Or zoon he'll be a ballet;
Let'n be humble, zuck his paws—
A disell , by an ass's jaws,
Is thoft a pretty sallet.

Charles Fox and he may notes compare;
What one wull zay the tether'l zware,
And zo they stand haranguing;
And try to blend us all, d'ye zee;
Iss, iss, leek bells they all agree,
Want nothing now but hanging.

Heifer.

In abundance.

Thistle.

197

LETTER IV.

CONTENTS TO LETTER IV.

Great Doubts and discouraging Presentiment in the Mind of Mister Budge, who seemeth not to like the Posture of Affairs—he is hurt and offended at a Kind of Triumph among some of Sir Francis's Party—Mister Budge comforteth himself with Similes drawn from Cock-fighting and Hunting—Mister Budge meeteth his Lordship's good Friend Pitt, of whom he giveth a most melancholy Account—No Nod from the ------, no Curtsy from the ------, and the Avenues of St. James's shut—Mister Pitt not in total Despondence—Mister Budge seeth Mister Pitt in a broad Stare on St. James's Clock, and St. James's Palace—Mister Budge's deep Reflections on the Mutability of Fortune, with a beautiful and original Comparison—Mister Budge more than suspecteth Mister Pitt's boasted Patriotism and Disinterestedness, from the Circumstance of oppressing the Nation with Pensions for his Tools, and Wives and Mothers of his Tools, at the Time of his Dismissal—Mister Budge exhibiteth a splendid Account of Mister Pitt's Table—he concludeth wittily.

198

My lord, I daant leek things to-day:
Things look dam quare, as I may zay;
Zomething is in the wind—
Zome ambuscade—zome mine, I fear,
To whisk us all into the air,
Az var az I can vind.

Odswinge! my lord, we weer long jaws,
We simm to hold out tiger claws,
Without the pow'r of pinching,
Our foes, the refugees of jails,
I'm much afeard, wull clip our nails:
Our corps, my lord, simm'th flinching.

The dowl the dirty rogues confound!
They simm more bould—simm gettin ground;
Zich impudence they show!
‘We be cock-sure,’ the knaves all zay—
‘Iss, iss, cock-sure to git the day;’
And zo they peertly crow.

But let mun crow and flap their wings,
We must not simm to meend thoose things—
Battles baant got by crowing;
Foxes and hares baant catch'd by noise,
By huntin-horns, and yowlin boys,
By hollowing and blowing.

199

Zo let us put our trust in God,
And hope that he hath got a rod,
A handsome one, in pickle;
To warm their pretty little sides;
To please their nice and tender hides,
And gee a pretty tickle.

My lord, I've zeed 'Squire Pitt again;
He shak'd his head, and simm'd in pain,
'Bout Mainwaring's election;
He shrink'th his shulders, wish'th un well;
But vur az I can zee and tell,
Can't gee un much protection.

Vor Pitt his zell, I vend, my lord,
Caan't git vrom one gert man a word,
You know who 'tis I mean—
No, nor a syllable, I'm tould,
No, truly, not for love nor gold,
Vrom his old friend the q---.

Agosh! Saint James's doors be barr'd,
And that, you'll zay, is cruel hard:
But Pitt is still in hopes;
Stoutly resolv'th to risk his all,
To storm the fortress—mount the wall
By ladders or by ropes.

I zee un both by day and night:
A look'th a mallancholy sprite;
Zo zad, zo woe-begone!
He had most damnably been dish'd,
And zo must look confounded wish'd,
When all is zaid and done.

Zome days I zee un go an airing,
And in the streat I've zeed un staring
Against Saint James's clock;
And when the yard I zee un spy,
‘Ah, Lord! zome people's tails,’ zaid I,
‘Have had a dowlish dock.’

200

He, that was once so gert, thoft I,
That cock'd his nose zo mainly high,
Zo gert in all the shows ;
And now chopvallin, tern'd out o' place;
Among the gold and silver lace,
A daan't put in his nose.

But to my zell I zaid agen,
‘It is the common case of men—
Now up aloft, now down;
Leek boys and girls a laughing rout,
In flying coaches tern'd about,
In fair and market-town.’

And yet, my lord, I cannot zay
Pitt travell'd with clean hands away;
Vor when at last he vound
That all his cunning wudn't do,
And that a must be forc'd to go,
And coudn't keep his ground:

What did a do?—Why bad enough—
All that his tribe could carry off,
Ecod, away they carr'd it—
Lord Grenville and his mumping wife,
The Lord knows what they did for life—
Most lovingly they shar'd it.

Agosh, my lord, 'twas leek the French:
When they be kick'd out o' the trench,
And forc'd, the dogs, to run;
They catch up ev'ry thing they ken,
Daan't leave a duck, nor cock, nor hen—
All goeth az shore's a gun.

Zo that the conqu'rors, when they cum,
Caan't vend a drap o' gin nor rum,
No, nor a rend o' cheese;
All that they leave behend, agosh,
Is nort but mucks, and rags, and trosh,
Bezides the rats and meeze.

201

And then one Canning, a poor boy,
Took from a school to his employ,
Once thoft a huge deep thinker—
He, like a very duteous son,
Got nice tid bits for Mother Hun,
And brother Tom the tinker;

And zister Peg, and zister Joan,
With scarce a flannel dicky on,
As vur as I can learn;
Broken-down actresses, they zay,
That in the country us'd to play
For herrings in a barn.

Now though this curious young man got
A hundred thousand with Miss Scott,
(Egad? a fortune thumping)
Behold! a hadn't got the heart
To give his family a peart,
Zo zent mun out a mumping.

I caan't zay that I leeke the plan,
That ev'ry lab'ring sarvin man
Shud sweat to nurse their prides:
But zome (or there be lying tongues)
Can very coolly cut large thongs
Vrom other people's hides.

My lord, zince Mister Pitt's disgrace,
I often knack in at Park Place,
(A liv'th at number vive);
And there I talk with Will and Tom,
About things past, and things to come,
And zee'fth they be alive.

Vor though they zay the man is poor,
I zee no signs of that, I'm sure;
There's meet for man and mowze.
But where he get'th it I can't tell,
But fath I leeke his kitchen's smell—
He keepth a roaring howze.

202

Sarvants in lace zo fine and big,
And ev'ry one as fat's a pig—
And why?—vor ev'ry minute
Out com'th a bottle and a jug,
In com'th a choice and foaming mug,
And ev'ry nose was in it.

While he, poor man! I'm bould to think,
Hath nearly now drink'd up his drink,
He may thank his own self vort't;
If any body might suppose,
And take a guiss from his red nose,
His veins all run with port.

You know, my lord, that people zay,
How ev'ry dog hath got his day—
Now Mister Pitt's was fine;
And you've had yours, leek all gert men:
And now, my lord, I wonder when
That I shall look 'pon mine.

POSTKREP.

I've just knack'd in at Mister Pitt's—
The sarvants half out o' their wits,
Zich running in and out!
Poor man, he mak'th most cruel groans—
Sir Walter try'th to ease his bones,
And call'th it flying gout.

I daan't know what a mean'th by flying
I think the gentleman is dying,
Now that's my sense of things:
A flying gout—well! zo it may—
And zoon I think will fly away
With Pitt upon his wings.

203

Excuse the liberties I take
And observations that I make—
God know'th, I'm no great judge.
Having no more to zay or write,
I wish your lordship a good night,
And rest your sarvant, Budge.

Levees and drawing-rooms.

204

LETTER V.

CONTENTS TO LETTER V.

A wonderful and unexpected peripetia in the Election Drama, by the Means of the Millers in Ambuscade—Mister Budge seemeth full of Lamentation—his Friends put on sad Faces—comforteth himself with the hopes of future Success—Mister Budge desponds—wisheth to have a pitched Battle with some of Burdett's Party; but, on Recollection, deemeth it not prudent to exhibit his Prowess, giving an Irish Reason, rather unfavourable to the heroic Character of Lord Rolle and himself—Mister Budge disliketh the Triumphs of Sir Francis, and also the honourable Circumstance of being drawn in his Coach by the Mobility—he entertaineth Hopes from the Virtue of a select Committee—Mister Budge telleth a very good Story of Farmer Tab, which seemeth to be known by many People out of Trade as well as in Trade—Farmer Tab's Story endeth, and Mister Budge concludeth.

205

Good Gosh! my lord, prepare to hear
Zomething that waant much please, I vear;
A two-and-forty pounder!
Zounds! we have nort but loosing tacks;
We now be humbled 'pon our backs—
Lord! Lord! as vlat's a vlounder!

When all simm'd quiet, neat and snug,
Safe as a vlea within his rug,
Afear'd of no vlea-killers—
Up vrom their ambush where they lied,
And rushing like a main spring tide,
Up leap'd a pack of millers!

To tell your lordship of our looks,
It is not in the pow'r of books!
Now, what then shall I say?
Why, fath we look'd as whit as witches,
At all those dourty sons of b**ches—
'Twas horror and dismay.

Sir Francis laugh'd—Mainwaring star'd,
And thoff a justice, curs'd and swear'd,
And zed it could not be?
And all Mainwaring's friends about,
They kick'd and made the damdest rout,
Zo down in the mouth was he.

206

'Twas sartingly a cunning trick,
And zo our cock hath had a nick;
Iss, iss, we've lost the main—
His droat is cut, and there he lieth;
He must give up the ghost—he dieth,
He'll ne'er get up again.

It is in vain to curse and zwear;
Az Frenchmen zay—‘fortin a guere’—
'Tis nonsense to be subbing;
And though they now have got the battle,
Hereafter we may meet the cattle,
And gee the dogs a drubbing.

My lord, I lang'd to try a bout
With zum o' Burdett's rabble rout—
I'd zoon a pugg'd their guts;
And gid mun menny a lammin lick,
And made mun of elections zick;
I'd gid mun all the butts.

And it, 'tis best as 'tis, perhaps;
We mert a catch'd zom arterclaps,
And be well drash'd for sterrin;
Iss, iss, I mert a goad to pot,
And got less credit than we got
In Ireland by the berrin.

You meend, my lord, the famous day,
When vrom the corpse we runn'd away,
Afear'd the French wud skin us;
Dreaving nor looking once behind,
Coosing leeke greyhounds and the wind,
As though the devil was in us.

Well, now again for th' old affair—
We be zo mad az we can stare,
Leek curs we drap our tails;
While Burdett's rogues in triumph run,
And whoop, and hollow—make zich fun—
Zo proud they hoist their sails.

207

And leek gert fools, the rabble rout
Took from the coach the hosses out,
To drag Burdett along—
Had I beed coachman, I'd a drash'd mun
Leek jackasses, I'd zo a lash'd mun,
And wear'd out many a thong.

The mob waan't leave bevore they're hang'd,
They want most hugely to be bang'd,
They caan't leave their vagaries;
Near Cold-bath-fields they lerk about,
To try to get the jailbirds out,
And stay alive poor Aris.

We talk of scrutinies, my lord;
The curt th' expenses wull aford,
And zom vokes in the city:
We yet may zend mun all to hell,
If we contrive to manidge well,
And chuse a good committee.

I'm tould, and I believe 'tis true,
There is not in Burdett's whole crew
Dree honest men among mun;
Though carrin, negers, mangy curs,
Oh! how I lang to comb their furs!
Oh, d---n it! how I'd thong mun!

They shud ha zom veow honest men,
At least 'bout one or two in ten;
But, zounds! they've none at all—
And if we sarch the crew all round,
Lord, Lord! what iz there to be vound,
Examine gert and small?

With your good leave, I'll zet bevore ye,
My lord, a midget of a story
Of Farmer Tab, my neighbour—
Zays Farmer Tab, one day, to me,
‘When I begun the world,’ zays he,
‘I was oblig'd to labour.’

208

And zo zays Farmer Tab, zays he,
‘I thort that I wud honest be,
And never wrong a soul—
Ah! Lord, I quickly went to pot—
Iss, by my honesty zoon got
Into a dirty hole.

‘Now, what shall I do now? quoth I—
A bit o' roguery let me try—
And zo I tern'd a rogue;
And got a mint o' money zoon,
Could lie abed, agosh, till noon—
A charming lazy dog.

‘But, Lord, Lord, Lord, it was not long,
Poor bird, bevore I chang'd my zong;
God! I was forc'd to tridge
Vor writing 'pon a piece o' paper:
I really thort that I shud caper,
When brought bevore the jidge.

‘But by God's marcy, and a bribe,
Deliver'd to a sartin tribe,
I sav'd my neck a rope.
Well, what, quoth I, shall I do now?
What method take to speed the plough?
Ah! Lord, I'm out o' hope.

‘Not honesty nor roguery do,
Says I, Lord, looking wondrous blue—
And then I scratch'd my pate;
And fath, scratch'd in a pretty thought,
That grist to mill abundance brought,
And made a good estate.

‘And zo upon a scheme I fix'd:
Roguery and honesty well mix'd
May do, says I, the feat;
And zo at once to work I went,
And mix'd mun to my heart's content,
Half honesty, half cheat.

209

‘And now, thank God, I turn a penny,
Live creditable too as enny,
By mixin mun together—
By this, Jo, thee and thy old wife
May laugh at all the storms of life,
And ha good sunsheen weather.’

Zo end'th the tale of Farmer Tab:
But Burdett and his crew, the scab,
Treat honesty az nort—
And thoff they've prosper'd theeze one time,
I hope that vor zom other crime crime
The devils wull all be cort.

210

LETTER VI.

CONTENTS TO LETTER VI.

Mister Budge having finished his History of the Middlesex Election giveth a History of his Visit at Mr. Pitt's House, in Park Place; where a very curious Conversation taketh place between Mister Budge and the Servants, that showeth what wonderful Liberties Servants take with their Masters, behind their Backs.

211

You bid me go, my lord, and quare
Vor Mister Pitt—zo I went there
And nack'd—and zo stapp'd in;
Zays I, ‘My lord hath zent to know,
How Mr. Pitt doth do, and zo.’—
Zo Thomas strok'd his chin;

And hemm'd and ha'ad—at last, says he
‘Look, Joe—I'll tell thee what—dost zee—
Our measter is dam bad—
A drink'th too hard—muddleth his head,
And not till your a goeth to bed,
That mak'th me cursed mad.

‘Measter's a toper ev'ry inch:
Egod, I never know'dn flinch,
Iss, measter wull die game;
He'll never run, I'll answer vor't;
He waan't forsake the good old port,
And quinch his nose's flame.

‘And zo what signifieth the pills,
And trade, that a large basket vills,
That Doctor Farq'har zends?
Lord, Lord! why ev'ry sarvant laughs,
To zee the bolusses and draffs,
While measter never mends.

212

‘Ere long he'll zing another tune—
I think we shall ha mourning zoon,
Death wull be vor'n too cunning.
We have rare times o't, to be shore—
No key upon the cellar door,
The cock for ever running.’

‘Thomas,’ quoth I, ‘I hugely itch,
To know if measter Pitt be rich,
Hæ, Thomas—lean or fat:
By many peepel I've be told,
That was a to be bought and sold,
A isn't worth a graat.’

‘Zo many peepel za,’ quoth Tom;
‘But trust me, Joe, 'tis all a hum,
A trap to take in ninnies;
Pretending to be cruel poor,
But az we zay here, that's a bore,
Our measter roll'th in guineas.

‘Yes, mun, he shams, and foams, and frets,
Pretendin a caan't pay his debts,
To prove to all the nation,
He doth not take their goods away,
Stidding their int'rest ev'ry day,
And bring about salvation.

‘I, I,’ quoth Thomas with a wink,
‘I fear my measter's name will stink,
Like carrion, vore 'tis long:
Vokes make about'n now no rout—
They all begin to ven'n out,
And freely gee their tongue.

‘Meend me,’ quoth Tom, ‘the man I know—
To Walmer Castle zoon he'll go,
And simm zo poor, good Lord!
Pertendin there was nothing sterrin:
Zo make a dinner 'pon a herrin,
Upon an old deal board.

213

‘He'll git a box of wood or tin,
To put his zalt and pepper in,
And munch his meal at noon,
Without a rag o' table clath;
And now shall ha a dish o' brath,
And use a wooden spoon;

‘Make meals on barley bread and tates,
'Pon trenchers too, instead o' plates;
Drink nort but dead small beer;
And that too from a penny jug,
Not able to avoard a mug,
Poor man—no, that too dear.

‘Old Chatham did the very same,
To git a little crumb o' name,
The damnest eat-all glutton.
He too could live, forsooth, 'pon leet;
Could feast upon an ounce of meat,
And peck a bone o' mutton.

‘But when old Pynsant, the mad fool
(Beginning, I suppose, to drule),
Play'd zich a mazeg'rry trick,
And gidd'n all his fine estate;
God help the poor old fellow's pate!
'Twas comfortably thick.

‘How quickly chang'd old measter's pallet!
Down his long droat, Lord, zich a wallet,
He stuff'd of vlesh and vish;
Vensun and terbot—ev'ry thing,
Fit to be put bevore the king,
With ev'ry dainty dish.

‘Zich slaying, Lord! vrom morn to night!
The cocks and hens in zich a fright!
'Twas all devour, devour!
The pigs and poultry, ducks and geese,
And terkies worth a crown a-piece,
Cried “murder” ev'ry hour.

214

‘Loads tumbled in of ev'ry kind:
Cook laugh'd, and nearly burst her wind—
The sarvants all stood grinnin;
'Twas roast, and boil, and fry away,
The spits were ternin all the day,
And all the jacks were spinnin.

‘Iss, iss, old Chatham dood the same,
That made the kingdom cry out shame,
Aye, over, mun, and over;
And measter's one of the old brood,
The heart and soul, the bones and blood,
As vur's I can discover.

‘He trieth to zee the king, I zay,
Drowing his zelf zo in his way,
To ketch a wink or nod—
But, ah! that hacky mun waan't smoke:
The k--- waan't take agen his yoke,
No, no, a waan't, by G---d.’

‘The ------ was hamper'd long anew,
And now bidd'th leading strings adieu—
Iss, bidd'th mun go to H*ll.
Now this geeth all the world delight:
The gentleman is in the right,
Agosh! to please his zell.

‘Thou zeest, Joe, that I speak my mind;
And trust me, zoon the world will vind
Our measter's virtue fudge—
'Tis true, Joe, ev'ry bit, I'll swear,
As true, Joe, as that thee stand'st here,
Az true's thy name is Budge.

‘One may zee daylight—iss, iss, faith,
Droo a small hole, the proverb zaith;
I neither make nor mend.
O Lord, I daan't tell all I know;
But mum, I'm dumb, I'm dumb, and zo---
Cats wink that be not blend.

215

‘Zome friends call now and then to zee'n,
And little crumes o' comfort gee'n,
And tell'n about the k---;
Then with a stare he shak'th his head,
Az much az though his mouth had zed,
Ah, Lord! 'tis no zich thing.’

‘Now Tom,’ quoth I, ‘about reform—
Thee mendest the gert and merty storm,
Bevore he got in place.’
‘Aye, aye,’ zay'd Tom, ‘I meend the day,
When measter starm'd and fum'd away,
And put up his long face.

‘I heer'd un often with his gang,
Aboo stairs 'pon th' affair harrang,
And joking with the duke;
Yes, fath, I heard their conversation;
To think how nice the gudgeon nation
Got hang'd upon their hook!

‘But, Joe, th' Old Bailey was the worst,
Where measter gin'st his will was forc'd
To gee his davy in;
The curt at once leek'd bullocks star'd,
His friends that follow'd'n were scar'd,
His enemies 'pon the grin.

‘The jidge, his friend, that wish'd un well,
Wish'd he would recollect his zell,
Ecod, he was near cort!
Zo measter hemm'd, and stettering zaid,
He thort his mem'ry was decay'd,
And cruel, cruel short.

‘And zo the jidges said they thort—
And then a wink went round the curt;
And Sheridan, the thief,
Who never spar'th a man an inch—
Gid'n a dam confounded pinch,
Agosh! was in his beef.

216

‘Joe, thee'st a zeed a paper keet
Heigh mounted, tackle all complete,
When, Lord, the string break'th, snap—
Than how a wheelth! now high—now zunk;
Dipp'th here and there, leek a man drunk,
When down a tumbleth zwap.

‘Agosh! zo our poor measter vall'd.
Most cussedly the man was maul'd;
Iss, iss, a zing'd dam smaall.
'Twas lucky too—vor, had the jidge
Own'd a spite, or bit o' gridge,
T'had been a harder vaall.

‘But all's blow'd over now, friend Joe;
Thee know'st that happen'd long ago—
'Tis now become a joke.
But there, Joe, as vor thee and I,
We mustn't speak our meends—vor why?
We must'n tich gert voke.

‘Measter's a greandenstone—zo rough,
He is not complaisant enough,
Not civil to the crown.
And than remember the poor prince:
Lord! how my measter mad'en wince!
Zwinge! how a let'n down!

‘He did behave t'un cruel hard;
And now he meet'th with his reward—
It is too late to flatter.
His royal highness waan't forgee't:
He lov'th un, fath, I plainly zeet't,
As the Dowl lov'th holy water.

‘Holwood wull by and by be zold,
To make a view good bits o' gold;
Zo he mak'th wise and frets.
But meend, my maister dothn't want wit;
'Ere long he wull contrive to git
Zome fool to pay his debts.

217

‘He caan't come in agen, vokes zay—
Too menny bars be in his way:
Bezides—the people hate'n;
And could they git'n in their claws,
Ecod, they'd pound his lantern jaws,
And leek a bull they'd bait'n!

‘Canning the school-boy lurk'd in here,
And zaftly whisper'd in his ear,
He'd git'n from disgrace;
He'd quickly tak'n by the poll,
And lug'n vrom his dirty hole,
And mak'n show his face.

‘He zaid he had be'd sly about,
To veel the marchants pulses out,
And for subscription caall;
Vor a brass image vor the town,
To which the people must bow down,
And worship leeke old Baal.

‘But this was laughing in his sleeve—
Contriv'd to make the king believe,
That when he turn'd out Pitt,
Off went the wisdom o' the court—
All that remain'd was good vor nort,
It wudn't sarve a nit.

‘The marchants, thoose that deal'd in loans,
That fatten'd up their skins and bones,
All runn'd into the trap;
‘An image, image,’ was the cry—
Od dam the blockheads then! thought I—
What! gull'd by zich a chap!

‘That zich a boy shud take mun in!
Lord! ev'ry mouth was on the grin,
Dree pearts of theese gert town.
‘Iss, put the image up,’ vokes zay,
‘Iss, put'n—and that very day
We'll try to put'n down.’

218

‘And zo they wull, except vokes race
To Newgate vor a strong safe place,
Or inside Bedlam walls;
Or if the world must zee his phiz,
The image must be made to quiz,
Aloft upon Saint Paul's.

‘Zo much vor images, friend Joe,
But thee and I baan't blend, dost know—
I giss we know what's what.
Well, Joe, as I were zaying, hæ,
Az no more hopes of courts I zee,
I'm looking vor my hat.

‘I've made zome hundreds in my place:
But az my maister's in disgrace,
What must a body do?
Thou zeest I speak my meend out, Joe;
And as the maister's on the go,
The sarvant shud go too.’

Now zich was our discoose, my lord—
I daan't know that I've miss'd a word,
No, not a single thing;
And if you shud think fit, or zo,
Your lordship, if you please, may show
My letter to the king.

POSTKREP.

MY lord, bevore I wrote theese letter,
I heeard the sarvants grin and chetter,
About a thing in hand;
'Tis caal'd a statue for 'Squire Pitt,
To honour'n vor his pow'rs o' wit,
And sense that sav'd the land.

219

They do zo laugh, and make zich jeers,
And d*mn mun, zo torment my ears,
And mock'n zo in print:
The cheeldish fools shud wear a bib—
And zee, my lord, a louzy squib;
I'm sure you'll zee nort in't.

THE STATUE.

‘EACH good-natur'd cit
Votes a statue to Pitt,
For actions enormously evil;
'Tis suppos'd very soon,
At the full of the moon,
They will order a bust to the Devil.’

O Lord! O Lord! I'm pleas'd anew:
Is this all London wits can do?
Is this all it possesses?
I'd hang my dog up to a stake
This moment, if a didn't make
'Pon one leg better vesses.

Now this they christen London wit,
That leek a razor cutt'th 'Squire Pitt—
Aye, let mun make their bregs;
Against dree straws I'd bet my soul,
That Stephen Tag, of Nacker's Hole,
Should beat'n all to regs.