Various - Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II

Pop. – Now for your news, Mags.
Mags. I told you, worthy Pop,
That Stubs and Smith put keepers on the shop.
Pop. – And how's our missus?
Mags. Why, hearty, when last seen
With a Life-Guardsman, crossing Turnham-green.
Pop. – And honest Snags?
Mags (with emotion). Ah! would that epithet were true,
Or I could keep the sad details from you!
Snags is not honest !

He has robb'd the till,
And lost the money, betting at a mill!

Mr. C. – What, Mags and Pop! the coves I wish'd to see
Above all others. Curse my pedigree!

I've been nabb'd, sirs, – I've been nabb'd, sirs, —
And bundled off direct to jail,
By the villains when they grabb'd, sirs,
And now I'm out upon stag-bail.

Mr. C. – Is this good stout?
Mags (feelingly). My honest master, quaff!
You'll find it strengthening, real half-and-half.

Come, Bob, take a sup, sup, sup!
Let the liquor your stiff neck slide down, boy;
There's nothing like keeping steam up,
When a man's at the worst, and done brown, boy.

Mr. C. – How's all at home, – I mean on Ludgate-hill, —
And have you heard the winner of the mill?
Mags (with considerable hesitation). – We all, alas! for Fortune's frowns seem fix'd on.
Poor Jerry Scout is bundled off to Brixton;
The shop's done up; and, for your lady wife,
I fear she's joined the Guards, yclept "The Life;"
On other things, barring the fight, I'm barren,
And Owen Swift was beat by Barney Aaron.

Mr. C. – My wife levanted, and the shop done up!
Mags, hand the quart; I need another sup.
Othello like, Bob's occupation's done;
For I back'd Owen freely two to one.
Like Antony at Actium, this fell day
Strips me of all, shop, cash, and lady gay.
Would I had nerve to take myself away!
Pop. ( aside. ) – I'll watch him close. Although his looks are placid,
He'll take a dose, I fear, of prussic acid.

Mr. C. – I am that wretched man!( Slaps his forehead. )
Pot-boy. Who pays the beer?
Pop. – I.
Pot-boy. – Here's a note. ( To Mr. C. ) Lord, but the man looks queer!

Sweet note! thou'rt balm and manna!
Mags to Pop. ( who is reading it over Mr. C.'s shoulder. )
Is it from his wife?
Pop. ( slaps his thigh. )
No! from Miss Juliana!"

Bend at the shrine of her on Ludgate-hill?
OT. (contemptuously). – Zounds! a cit's helpmate. That would never do.
One of us Guards, and one of taste like you.
Capt. – Faith, honest Blowhard, and you, my pal, O'Toole,
Tho' fond of flirting, yet your friend's no fool!
Think ye that I could live upon my pay,
And keep four wives on three and six a day?
No. Let me have a monied mistress still,
My El Dorado be a tradesman's till.
Love fed by flimsies, is the love that thrives,
And let the mercers keep the Guardsman's wives.
O'T. – I see how matters stand, my trump; enough.
Blow. ( to O'T. ) – He's wide awake, Tim. ( To the Capt. ) Con. you're up to snuff!
Capt. – Come, one more round of jacky, and we part, —
I, to the peerless lady of my heart
In Stamford-street; – to Knightsbridge barrack you;
And mind don't split that I was out at Kew.