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.
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.
'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.
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.’
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.
‘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.
