30

THE SPORTSMAN IN STYLĖ.

Drew razor swift as he could pull it,
And cut, from ear to ear, his gullet.

MORAL.

Who cannot write, yet handle pens, Are apt to hurt themselves and friends, Tho' others use them well, yet fools Should never meddle with edge-tools.

THE SPORTSMAN IN STYLE.

(DIBDIN.)

DON'T you see that as how I'm a sportsman in style,

All so kickish so slim and so tall:

Why I've search'd after game, and that many's the mile,

And seed no bit of nothing at all:

My license I pockets, my pony I strides,

And I pelts through the wind and the rain; And if likely to fall, sticks the spurs in the sides, Leaves the bridle, and holds by the mane,

To be sure dad at home kicks up no little strife, But daddy what's that, en't it fashion and life?

At sporting I never was known for to lag,

I was always in danger the first;

When at Epping last Easter they turn'd out the stag I'm the lad that was roll'd in the dust.

Then they call me a nincom, why over the fields,
There a little beyond Dulwich Common,

I a chick and a goose tumbled neck over heels,
And two mudlarks, besides an old woman;
Then let miserly dad kick up sorrow and strife,
I'm the lad that's genteel, and knows fashion and

life.

1

MONSIEUR TONSON.

31

But don't go for to think I neglects number one--
Often when my companions with ardour,
Are hunting about with the dog and the gun,
I goes and I hunts in the larder:

There I springs a woodcock, or flushes a quail,
Or finds puss as she sits under cover,
Then soho to the barrel to start me some ale,

And when I have dined, and fed Rover,

Pays my landlord's shot, as I ogles his wife,

While the daughter cries out--lord! what fashion

and life!

Then I buys me some game, all as homeward we jog,

And when the folks ax how I got 'em,

Tho' I shooted but once, and then kill'd the poor dog I swears, and then stands to 't, that I shot 'em. So come round me ye sportsmen, that's smart and what not,

All stylish and cutting a flash;

When your piece won't kill game charg'd with powder and shot,

To bring 'em down, down with your cash; And if with their jokes and their jeers folks are rife, Why dabby, says you, e'nt it fashion and life?

MONSIEUR TONSON.

THERE liv'd as fame reports, in days of yore,
At least some fifty years ago or more,

A pleasant wight on town, yclep'd Tom King, A fellow that was clever at a joke,

Expert in all the arts to teaze and smoke,

In short, for strokes of humour, quite the thing.

To many a jovial club this King was known,
With whom his active wit unrivall'd shone

32

MONSIEUR TONSON.

Choice spirit, grave free-mason, buck and blood, Would croud, his stories and bon mots to hear, And none a disappointment e'er could fear, His humour flow'd in such a copious flood. To him a frolic was a high delight— A frolic he would hunt for day and night, Careless how prudence on the sport might frown. If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view, At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew, Nor left the game till he had run it down. One night, our hero, rambling with a friend, Near fam'd St. Giles's chanc'd his course to bend, Just by that spot, the Seven Dials height; 'Twas silence all around and clear the coast, The watch, as usual dozing on his post,

And scarce a lamp display'd a twinkling light. Around this place, there liv'd the num'rous clans Of honest, plodding, foreign artizans,

Known at that time by the name of refugees-
The rod of persecution, from their home,
Compell'd the inoffensive race to roam,
And here they lighted like a swarm of bees.

Well! our two friends were saunt'ring through the

street,

In hopes some food for humour soon to meet,
. When, in a window near, a light they view;
And, though a dim and melancholy ray,
It seem'd the prologue to some merry play,

So tow'rds the gloomy dome our hero drew. Strait at the door he gave a thund'ring knock, (The time we may suppose near two o'clock) 'I'll ask,' says King, if Thompson lodges here'-6 Thompson!" cries t'other, who the devil's he?' 'I know not,' King replies, but want to see What kind of animal will now appear.'

6

MONSIEUR TONSON.

33

After some time, a little Frenchman came,
One hand display'd a rushlight's trembling flame,
The other held a thing they call culotte;
An old strip'd woollen nightcap grac'd his head,
A tatter'd waistcoat o'er one shoulder spread,

Scarce half awake, he heav'd a yawning note. Though thus untimely rous'd he courteous smil'd, And soon adressed our wag in accents mild,

Bending his head politely to his knee'Pray, sare, vat vant you, dat you come so late ; I beg your pardon. sare, to make you vait; 'Pray tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me?' 'Sir,' reply'd King, I merely thought to know, As by your house I chanc'd to-night to go

But really, I disturb'd your sleep I fear'I say. I thought, that you perhaps could tell, 'Among the folks who in this street may dwell, 'If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here?' The shiv'ring Frenchman, tho' not pleas'd to find The business of this unimportant kind,

Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer, Shrugged out a sigh that thus his rest should break, Then with unalter'd courtesy, he spake

'No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here.' Our wag begg'd pardon, and toward home he sped, While the poor Frenchman crawl'd again to bed ;

But King, resolv'd not thus to drop the jest, So the next night, with more of whim than grace, Again he made a visit to the place,

To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest. He knockid-but waited longer than before; No footstep seem'd approaching to the door,

Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound; King, with the knocker, thunder'd then again, Firm on his post determin'd to remain ;

And oft indeed he made the door resound.

34

MONSIEUR TONSON.

At last King hears him o'er the passage creep, Wondering what fiend again disturb'd his sleep; The wag salutes him with a civil leer;

Thus drawling out, to heighten the surprise, (While the poor Frenchman rubb'd his heavy eyes) Is there a Mr. Thompson-lodges here?'

The Frenchman faulter'd with a kind of fright'Vy, sare, I'm sure I told you, sare, last night(And here he labour'd with a sigh sincere) No Monsieur Tonson in de varld I know, No Monsieur Tonson here-1 told you so ; Indeed, sare, dare no Monsieur Tonson here" Some more excuses tender'd, off King goes, And the old Frenchman sought once more repose, The rogue next night pursued his old career— "Twas long indeed before the man came nigh, And then he utter'd in a piteous cry,

Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here! Our sportive wight his usual visit paid, And the next night came forth a prattling maid: Whose tongue indeed than any jack went faster; Anxious she strove his errand to enquire, He said 'tis vain her pretty tongue to tire,

He should not stir till he had seen her master.' The damsel then began, in doleful state, The Frenchman's broken slumbers to relate,

And begg'd he'd call at proper time of dayKing told her she must fetch her master down, A chaise was ready, he was leaving town,

But first had much of deep concern to say.
Thus urg'd she went the snoring man to call,
And long indeed was she oblig'd to bawl,

E're she could rouse the torpid lump of clay-
At last he wakes--he rises--and he swears,
But scarcely had he totter'd down the stairs,
When King attacks him in the usual way.