Chapter XII (2)

An Act for the better defence and support of Life of Landlord and Tenant, and to facilitate the Maintenance and Comfort of Persons subject to certain starvation in IRELAND.

_Preamble_.

WHEREAS there has been always found to be a certain
connexion between Misery and Outrage in Ireland; AND
WHEREAS, there is no reason to believe that the Irish people
have a greater fancy for shooting each other than other
people; AND WHEREAS, hitherto every kind of Coercion has
been tried without effect, and the only means of preventing
outrage that has not been tried is to give the people work
and food.

I. BE IT ENACTED that from and after the passing of this
Act, it shall and may be compulsory upon every English
Cabinet Minister, before he legislates for Ireland, to pay a
visit to the same, and learn something of the real state of
the people and the country thereof.

II. AND BE IT ENACTED, that it shall and may be lawful to
teach Irish Landlords that Property has its duties as well
as its Rights, and that the latter may best be secured by a
due and proper discharge of the former.

III. AND BE IT ENACTED, that from and after the passing of
this Act, Milk of Human Kindness be allowed to be imported
into Ireland, and used freely in all parts of the same,
instead of the _Odium Theologicum_ or _Odium Politicum_ now
in use, in lieu thereof.

* * * * *

VIII. AND BE IT ENACTED, that a compensation not exceeding
£ per annum, be paid to Mr. O’Connell and all hired
agitators, for the loss they shall sustain by the passing of
this Bill.

IX. AND BE IT ENACTED, that in the construction of this Act,
masculine words shall mean feminine, and singular plural;
and that all other rules of grammar shall be violated, as in
other Acts is usually provided.

From _The Almanack of the Month_. July, 1846.

――――

In 1862, Carter of Regent Street, London, published “Official Regulations on Female Dress during the International Exhibition of 1862.” This amusing skit was also got up in correct official style.

――――:o:――――

OFFICE RULES.

1. Gentlemen upon entering will Leave the door wide open, or apologise.

2. Those having No Business should remain as Long as Possible, take a chair, and Lean against the Wall; it will preserve the wall, and may prevent its fall upon us.

3. Gentlemen are requested to Smoke especially during Office Hours; Tobacco and Cigars will be supplied.

4. Talk Loud or Whistle, especially when we are engaged; if this has not the desired effect, Sing.

5. If we are in Business Conversation with anyone you are requested not to wait until we are done, but Join in, as we are particularly fond of speaking to half-a-dozen or more at a time.

6. Profane Language is expected at all times, especially if Ladies are present.

7. Put your feet on the tables, or lean against the Desk; it will be of great assistance to those who are writing.

8. Persons having no Business with this Office will call often or excuse themselves.

9. Should you need the loan of any Money do not fail to Ask for it, as we do not require it for Business Purposes, but merely for the sake of lending.

Our hours for listening to Solicitors for Benevolent Purposes are from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m., Book Agents from 1 to 3 p.m., Beggars, Pedlers, and Insurance Agents all day. We attend to our Business at Night.

_The Lord helpeth those that help themselves, but the Lord help any man caught helping himself here._

――――

THE MENAGERIE.
(_A Burlesque Lecture._)

“Hi! hi! hi! walk up, walk up, walk up! The only show in the fair, the largest and the best! The penny seats are all a penny, the ha’penny seats are four for tuppence! Ladies and gentlemen, we ’ave the most astounding collection of ’uman and animal fernomenons ever exhibited to the public of this or any other town! The pictures on the outside of the carawan ain’t nothink to the marvels to be seen alive within! Give the drum a one-er!

“Before a-inviting of you to enter, and taste the joys of Elysium to be ’ad at the small charge of one penny, I will exhibit to your astonished and admiring gaze a few pictorual illusterations of the wonders to be shortly disclosed to you. Give the drum a one-er!

“The first speciment I shall introduct to your notice is the _Spotted Babe of Peru_. The infant is so called from being born in the Ratcliffe ’Ighway! It was born at a very early age bein’ quite a child at the time. It had two parients, one male and one female. I should be deludin’ of you, ladies and gents, if I concealed from you the fack that its male parient was its father. The infant is covered all over with spots or specks. There ain’t nothink ketchin’ in the spots or specks. They wos caused by its grandfather ’avin swaller’d a box o’ dominoes in a fit of _duleruam tremins_. When tormented by the pangs of ’unger, the infant do not gnash ’is toothless gums and ’owl for grub like the ornary babe of commerce, but ’e climbs to the rooft of the carawan, where ’e barks like a dorg! ’Ence the term, ‘_Peruvian Bark_’! Give the drum a one-er!

“The next speciment I shall introduct to your notice is the _O-rang-O-tang_! The o-rang-o-tang ain’t a Irish beast, as ’is name might imply. ’E is a celebrated bird of the hinside of Central Africa. ’E do not live on cotton-wool and carster-hile, as is poplerly supposed! Oh, no, that there is a aspershin on the manner of the inseck! ’E climbs aloft to the giddy summat of the Halpine palm-tree, where ’e ’angs upsy-down by the roof of ’is mouth; ketches the prairie-hyster with ’is hyebrows; cracks it with ’is fore’ead; devours the lushus froot; and distriboots the shells among ’is noomerous orfspring! Give the drum a one-er!

The next objek of interest is the _Bovis Kimmunis_, or _Commin Cow_. The cow is the most dimmestercated of all wile animals. ’E is a oblong beast, in the form of a pork-mantew or fiddle-case on tressels! ’E ’ave a leg on each corner of ’im. ’Is ’ead is at one end of ’is body, and ’is tail is at the other end. The tail-end is oppersite the ’ead-end, onless the animil turns round, then the tail-end is on the ’ead-end! And this confuses the milkmaids! The cow is a useful beast. In our declinin’ days, when we expected every moment to be our nex, we ’ave been soothed and solaced by an excellent and newtrishis jelly prepared from ’is horns, ’is oofts, and ’is tail; or to quote the words of the advertisement, ‘it imparts a pearly lustre to the breath, a kinky curliness to the complexion, a floral flaviour to the eye; is a excellent substertute for a stummick-pump, carefully perpared from the reseat of a nobleum in the country, to imertate which is forgery.’

“I cannot quit the _Bovis Kimmunis_, or Commin Cow, without recalling to your recommemberlection the words of the well-known poet _Cow_per, which he says:

“‘Twinkle, twinkle, pretty cow,
I thought I ’eard you say mee-yow!
Up above the booth so fly,
Crackin’ winkles on the sly!’

“Give the drum a one-er!

“The last speciment I shall ’ave the pleasure of introducting to your notice is the _Cocclicus Indicus_, or _Prickly_ _Pollywog of the Ipecacuanha Mountains_, wot lives entirely on bottled bootjacks, currant jelly, turnip-tops, sarsaparilla, tenpenny nails, toasting-forks, corn-plaister, pot-lids, cabbage water, lemon- squeezers, black-beetle poison, cinder-sifters, soapsuds, silver sand, and postage stamps; until, one day, in a fit of tempory aboration of hinterlek, it swaller’d a sausage machine, two reams of emery paper, a box of matches, and fourteen seidlitz powders, and expired of spontaneous combustion and acute inflermation of the waistcoat pocket linings of the coats of ’is stummick. ’E then expired, and is to be seen alive within. Give the drum a one-er!”

CHARLES COLLETTE.

――――

ON FARMING.
(_Lecture Written by Mark Twain when a Boy._)

Farming is healthy work; but no man can run a farm and wear his best clothes at the same time. Either the farming must cease while the new clothes continues, or the new clothes must cease while farming continues. This shows that farming is not so clean work as being a Congressman or schoolmaster, for these men can wear good clothes if they can find money to pay for them. Farmers get up early in the morning. They say the early bird catches the worm. If I was a bird, I had rather get up late and eat cherries in place of worms. Farmers don’t paint their waggons when they can help it, for they show mud too quick. The colour of their boots is red, and don’t look like other people’s boots, because they are twice as big. Farmers’ wives have a hard time cooking for hired men, and the hired men find fault with the farmers’ wives’ cooking. Why don’t farmers’ wives let the hired men do the cooking while they do the finding fault? Farmers don’t get as rich as bank presidents, but they get more exercise. Some ask――“Why don’t farmers run for Congress?” They run so much keeping boys out of their peach orchards and melon patches they don’t have any time to run after anything else. If Congress should run after farmers, one might be caught now and then. Lawyers can beat farmers at running for most anything. I know a farmer who tried to run a line fence according to his notion. The other man objected and hurt the farmer. The farmer hired a lawyer to run his line fence, and now the lawyer runs the farmer’s farm, and the farmer has stopped running anything.

――――:o:――――

REGULATIONS IN THE UNITED STATES NAVY.

A Buffalo paper prints the following extracts from a manuscript treatise on naval discipline, prepared by the Secretary of the American Navy:――“The custom of sailing before the wind should be avoided, whenever it is possible, as experience has demonstrated that it is much better to wait for the breeze and carry it along, if not too heavy. Commanders of sailing ships-of-war, I have observed, are addicted to the practice of ‘staggering under all they can carry.’ This matter will receive early attention, as the necessity for reform in this direction would seem imperative. When dirty weather is threatened, or when there is reason to suspect breakers ahead, the captain should heave to, or three, but never more than four. In taking on board ammunition, and powder, and shot, and shells and caps, &c., the fore, main, and mizen trucks should be utilised, in connection with the animals belonging to the horse marines. It is deemed best to abolish dog-watches. The practice is believed to encourage idleness among the sailors, and necessitates the keeping on board a number of useless beasts whose presence must be anything but desirable. In the interests of economy, the allowance for captains’ gigs should be withdrawn. It is plain that they are of no real utility on ship-board, and that they are at all times in the way. When on shore the captains can avail themselves of the street railway, or of the facilities afforded by the livery stables. All anchors should be accurately weighed before being taken on board, and the weight plainly marked on each, thereby saving time and trouble when a ship is about to take her departure. All ‘splicing’ should be done by the chaplain, as he is the person upon whom the performance of the ceremony most properly devolves. When sailing in tropical seas, the breeches of the guns should be removed and carefully stowed away, to be replaced when again entering colder latitudes and longitudes. The practice of carrying logs, merely for the purpose of ‘heaving’ them is of questionable propriety, and will form a subject for future enquiry.”

――――

ADMIRALTY REFORMS.

The following appointments have recently been created at the Admiralty, to which salaries of £1000 a-year each are attached;

The Chief Obstructor.
The Complicator-General of Naval Accounts.
The Scrutineer of Dockyard Expenditure.
The Investigator of Expenses of Ships Building.
The Calculator of Profits by Ships broken up, or lost.
The Professional Criticizer of the Obstructor’s Vessels.
The Examiner and Inspector of Contractors and Inventors.
The Constructor-in-Chief of Revolving Turrets.
The Insinuator and Receiver of Contracts.
The Riveter and Contractor-General of Iron Plate.
The Admirer and Appraiser of Dockyard Work.
The Inventor and Circulator of Expensive Theories.
The Detector-General of Fraudulent Contracts.
The Director of Ingenious and Inexpensive Works.
The Imposter-General of Stores and Store accounts.
The Subverter of Official Forms and Precedents.

――――:o:――――

THE LAST ARRIVAL.

There came to port last Sunday night
The queerest little craft,
Without an inch of rigging on;
I looked, and looked, and laughed.
It seemed so curious that she
Should cross the unknown water,
And moor herself within my room――
My daughter, O! my daughter!

Yet, by these presents, witness all,
She’s welcome fifty times,
And comes consigned to Hope and Love,
And common metre rhymes.
She has no manifest but this;
No flag floats o’er the water;
She’s rather new for British Lloyds――
My daughter, O! my daughter!

Ring out, wild bells――and tame ones too;
Ring out the lover’s moon;
Ring in the little worsted socks;
Ring in the bib and spoon.
Ring out the muse; ring in the nurse;
Ring in the milk and water:
Away with paper, pens, and ink――
My daughter, O! my daughter!

GEORGE W. CABLE.

――――

CUMULATIVE PARODIES.

There was a young damsel; oh, bless her,
It cost very little to dress her;
She was sweet as a rose
In her every day clothes,
But had no young man to caress her.

* * * * *

There was a young turkey; oh, bless her,
It cost very little to dress her;
Some dry bread and thyme,
About Thanksgiving time,
And they ate the last bit from the dresser.

* * * * *

A newspaper poet; oh, dang him!
And pelt him, and club him, and bang him!
He kept writing away,
Till the people one day
Rose up and proceeded to hang him.

_The Detroit Free Press._

SLANG, CANT, AND FLASH.

As Slang is a species of parody of our mother tongue, and as many songs are written in it, it must be alluded to in this Collection, however briefly.

A few examples will be quoted, followed by a bibliography, including mention also of Dictionaries devoted to Satirical and Political slang.

Thieves slang, or “cant,” is of multifold origin, but is mainly derived from Romany or gipsy talk, with an admixture of Anglo-Saxon, Latin, and French words.

Rhyming and back-slang are two other forms of purely native manufacture, both arbitrary, and artificial in their construction.

By the former any word that rhymes with the one that is intended is substituted for it, and gradually becomes accepted. This method is somewhat complicated, and is, of course, almost unintelligible to the uninitiated, which is precisely why it is adopted by thieves and their associates.

Back-slang is largely patronised by costermongers. It consists in spelling backwards the principal words in a sentence, with more or less accuracy. Thus, “Hi, yob! kool that enif elrig with the nael ekom. Ssap her a top o’ reeb and a tib of occabot,” simply means “Hi boy! look at that fine girl with the lean moke. Pass her a pot of beer and a bit of tobacco.”

Although slang is principally indulged in by the lower orders and criminal classes, it must not be forgotten that many slang words have been adopted and incorporated into our general language, to say nothing of Americanisms, which are also constantly being absorbed. Every profession, too, has its slang, or technical language, which is mainly unintelligible to the outside world. Thus Soldiers, Sailors, Engineers, Doctors, and Lawyers, have their own phraseology, but what is most objectionable is the Clerical slang. This imparts a fine full flavoured tone of hypocrisy to any ordinary conversation by dragging in “D.V.” references to the Deity, and the quotation of scraps of Holy writ in the most unnecessary profusion, and in the most unseemly contrast with trivial statements of every day life.

THE HOUSE BREAKER’S SONG.

I ne’er was a nose[57] for the reg’lars[58] came
Whenever a pannie[59] was done:――
Oh! who would chirp[60] to dishonour his name,
And betray his pals[61] in a nibsome[62] game
To the traps?[63]――Not I for one!
Let nobs in the fur trade[64] hold their jaw,
And let the jug[65] be free;――
Let Davy’s dust[66] and a well-faked claw[67]
For Fancy coves be the only law,
And a double tongued squib[68] to keep in awe
The chaps that flout at me!

From morn to night we’ll booze a ken[69],
And we’ll pass the bingo[70] round;
At dusk we’ll make our lucky[71], and then,
With our nags so flash, and our merry men,
We’ll scour the lonely ground.
And if the swells resist our “Stand!”
We’ll squib[72] without a joke;
For I’m snigger’d if we will be trepanned
By the blarneying jaw of a knowing hand,
And thus be lagged[73] to a foreign land,
Or die by an artichoke[74].

But should the traps be on the sly,
For a change we’ll have a crack[75];
The richest cribs[76] shall our wants supply――
Or we’ll knap[77] a fogle[78] with fingers fly[79],
When the swell one turns his back.
The flimsies we can smash[80] as well,
Or a ticker[81] deftly prig;――
But if ever a pal in limbo fell,
He’d sooner be scragg’d[82] at once than tell;
Though the hum-box patterer[83] talked of hell,
And the beak[84] wore his nattiest wig[85]!

From “_Pickwick Abroad_; or, The Tour in France.” by G. W. M. Reynolds. (Chapter 26.)

――――

NIX MY DOLLY, PALS, FAKE AWAY!

In a box of the stone Jug I was born,
Of a hempen widow the kid forlorn,――
Fake away!
My noble father, as I’ve heard say,
Was a famous merchant of capers gay;
Nix my dolly, pals,――fake away!
Nix my dolly, &c.

The knucks in quod did my shoolmen play,
And put me up to the time of day;――
Fake away!
No dummy-hunter had forks so fly,
No knuckler so deftly could take a cly;
Nix my dolly, &c.

But my nuttiest lady, one fine day,
To the beaks did her gentleman betray,――
Fake away!
Thus was I bowl’d out at last,
And into the Jug for a lag was cast;
Nix my dolly, &c.

But I slipp’d my darbies one morn in May,
And gave to the dubsman a holiday,――
Fake away!
And here I am, pals, merry and free,
A regular rollicking Romany;
Nix my dolly, &c.

W. HARRISON AINSWORTH.

――――

“DEAR BILL, THIS STONE-JUG.”

(_Being an Epistle from_ TOBY CRACKSMAN, _in Newgate, to_
BILL SYKES.)

Dear Bill, this _stone-jug_,[86] at which flats dare to rail,
(From which till the next Central sittings I hail)
Is still the same snug, free-and-easy old hole,
Where MACHEATH met his _blowens_,[87] and WYLDE floor’d his bowl.
In a ward with one’s _pals_,[88] not locked up in a cell,
To an old hand like me it’s a _fam-ly[89]-hotel_.

In the day-rooms the _cuffins_[90] we queer at our ease,
And at _Darkman’s_[91] we run the rig just as we please;
There’s your _peck_[92] and your _lush_, hot and reg’lar, each day.
All the same if you work, all the same if you play.
But the lark’s when a _goney_[93] up with us they shut,
As ain’t up to our _lurks_,[94] our _flash-patter_,[95] and smut;

But soon in his eye nothing green would remain,
He knows what’s o’clock when he comes out again.
And the next time he’s _quodded_[96] so downy and snug,
He may thank us for making him _fly to the jug_.[97]
But here comes a cuffin――which cuts short my tale,
It’s agin rules is _screevin’_[98] to pals out o’ gaol.

(_The following postscript seems to have been added when the Warder had passed._)

For them coves in Guildhall and that blessed LORD MAYOR,
_Prigs on their four bones should chop whiners_,[99] I swear:
That long over Newgit their Worships may rule,
As the _High-toby, mob, crack and screeve_[100] model school;
For if Guv’ment was here, not the Alderman’s Bench,
Newgit soon ’ud be bad as “_the Pent_” or “_the Tench_.”[101]

_Note._――We subjoin a Glossary of MR. CRACKSMAN’S lingo:―― [Transcriber's Note: See footnotes [86]-[101].]

_Punch._ January 31, 1857.

――――

THE CHICK-A-LEARY COVE.

I’m a “Chickaleary bloke”[102] with my one, two, three,
Whitechapel was the village, I was born in,
For to get me on the hop, or on my “tibby”[103] drop,
You must wake up very early in the morning.
I have a “rorty”[104] gal, also a knowing pal,
And merrily together we jog on,
I doesn’t care a “flatch”[105] as long as I’ve a “tach,”[106]
Some “pan-num”[107] for my chest, and a “tog”[108] on.

I’m a Chickaleary bloke with my one, two, three,
Whitechapel is the village I was born in,
For to get me on the hop, or on my “tibby” drop,
You must wake up very early in the morning.

Now “kool”[109] my downy “kicksies”[110] the style for me,
Built upon a plan werry naughty,
The stock around my “squeeze”[111] a “guiver”[112] colour see,
And the “vestat”[113] with the “bins”[114] so “rorty.”
My tailor serves you well, from a “perger”[115] to a swell,
At Groves’ you’re safe to make a sure pitch,[116]
For ready “yenom”[117] down, there aint a shop in town
Can “lick” Groves’ in the “Cut” as well as Shoreditch.

I’m a Chickaleary bloke, &c.

Off to Paris I shall go, to show a thing or two,
To the “dipping blokes”[118] what hangs about the caffes,
How to do a “cross-fan”[119] for a “super”[120] or a slang,[121]
And to “bustle”[122] them “grand’armes”[123] I’d give the office.
Now my pals I’m going to slope, see you soon again, I hope,
My young woman is avaiting, so be quick,
Now join in a “chyike”[124] the “jolly”[125] we all like;
I’m off with a party to the “Vic.”

I’m a Chickaleary bloke, &c.

――――

THE THIEVES’ CHAUNT.

There is a nook in the _boozing ken_,[126]
Where many a _mud I fog_,[127]
And the smoke curls gently, while cousin Ben
Keeps filling the pots again and again,
If the coves have _stump’d their hog_.[128]

The liquors around are diamond bright,
And the _diddle_[129] is best of all;
But I never in liquors took delight,
For liquors I think is all a _bite_,[130]
So for heavy wet I call.

The heavy wet in a pewter quart,
As brown as a badger’s hue,
More than Bristol milk[131] or gin,
Brandy or rum, I tipple in,
With my darling _blowen_[132] Sue.

Oh! _grunting peck_[133] in its eating
Is a richly soft and a savoury thing;
A _Norfolk capon_[134] is jolly grub
When you wash it down with _strength of bub_[135]
But dearer to me Sue’s kisses far,
Than grunting peck or other grub are,
And I never funks the _lambskin men_,[136]
When I sits with her in the boozing ken.

Her _duds_[137] are _bob_[138]――she’s a _kinchin crack_[139]
And I hopes as how she’ll never _back_;[140]
For she never _lushes dog’s soup or lap_,[141]
But she loves my cousin the _bluffer’s_[142] tap.
She’s wide awake, and her _prating cheat_[143]
For humming a cove was never beat;
But because she lately _nimm’d_[144] some tin,
They have sent her to lodge at the _King’s Head Inn_.[145]

From _The Individual_. November 15, 1836. Cambridge. W. H. Smith.

――――

Generalizations have been made from which it appears that certain localities have peculiar productive qualities in the manufacture of criminals, thus London for sharpers, Brummagem for thieves, Paris for fly men (window thieves) Sheffield for pilchers of snyde (coiners and utterers.)

As to the ultimate destinations of these gentlemen one of themselves has put the various establishments in verse, thus recounting their merits:――

“Dartmoor is a tidy place,
Chatham is the terror of our race,
Portland is not quite so bad,
Broadmoor is for those stark mad,
Pentonville is the hill of London,
Borstal if you’re there you’re undone,
Portsmouth is a noted shop,
Brixton is a regular cop.”

Another equally good authority thus describes them:――

“Millbank for thick shins and graft at the pump,
Broadmoor for all laggs as go off their chump,
Brixton for good toke and cocoa with fat,
Dartmoor for bad grub but plenty of chat,
Portsmouth a blooming bad place for hard work.
Chatham on Sunday gives four ounces of pork,
Portland is the worst of the lot for to joke in,
For fetching a lagging there is no place like Woking.”

――――

“Joe quickly his sand had sold, sir,
And Bess got a basket of rags;
Then up to St. Giles’s they rolled sir;
To every bunter Bess brags,
Then unto the gin shop they _pike it_,[146]
And Bess was admitted we hear;
For none of the crew dare but like it,
As Joey, her kiddy was there.”

* * * * *

_The Sandman’s Wedding_, a Cantata.

――――

THE BEGGAR’S CURSE.
(By _Thomas Decker_, 1609.)

The Ruffin cly[147] the Nab of the Harmanbeck,[148]
If we maund Pannam,[149] Lap, or Ruff-Peck,
Of Poplars of Yarum,[150] he cuts bing to the Ruffmans,
Or else he with cruelty swears by the Lightmans,[151]
He’ll seize us, and put our stamps fast in the Harmans,[152]
The Ruffin cly the Ghost of the Harmanbeck
If we heave a Booth[153] we straight cly the Jerk[154]
If we niggle or mill but a poor Boozing-Ken,[155]
Or nip a poor Bung[156] with one single Win,
Or dup but the Gigger[157] of a Country-cove’s Ken,
Straight we’re to the Cuffin Queer[158] forced to bing;
And ’cause we are poor made to scour the Cramp-ring,[159]
From thence at the Chats we trine in the Lightmans,[160]
Plague take the Harmanbeck: Ruffin the Harmans.

――――

CLEAR OUT――LOOK SHARP!

_Song commonly sung by tramps and thieves at a general Rendezvous before they divide into parties, to stroll about the country._

Bing[161] out, bien[162] Morts,[163] and toure[164] and toure,
Bing out, bien Morts, and toure;
For all your Duds[165] are bing’d awast[166]
The bien Cove[167] hath the loure[168].

I met a Dell,[169] I viewed her well,
She was benship[170] to my watch;
So she and I did stall[171] and cloy,[172]
Whatever we could catch.

This Doxie Dell can cut bien whids,[173]
And drill well for a win;[174]
And prig and cloy so benshiply,
All the Deusea-Vile[175] within.

The Booth being raised,[176] we stept aside,
Thro’ mire, and frost and snow;
When they did seek then did we creep,
And plant in Ruffman’s Row.[177]

To strowling ken[178] the mort bings then,
To fetch loure for her cheats;
Duds and ruffpeck,[179] maugre Harmanbeck,[180]
We won by Maunder’s feats.

You maunders all, stow what you stall,[181]
To Rum Coves what so quire;[182]
And Bucksom Dell, that snilches well,[183]
And takes loure for her hire.

A Jybe well jerked, tick Rome-confeck,[184]
For back by Glimmer to maund,[185]
To mill each ken,[186] let Cove bing then,[187]
Thro’ Ruffmans, Jague or Laund[188].

Till Cramprings quire, tip Cove his Hire,[189]
And Quire-ken[190] do them catch;
Old Ruffler Mill[191] the Quire-cuffin,[192]
So quire to bien Cove’s watch.

Booze, Mort, and Ken, been Darkman’s then.[193]
The poor Cove’s bing’d awast;
On Chats to trine,[194] by Rum-Coves Dine,[195]
For his long Lib at last.[196]

Bing out bien morts, and toure and toure,
Bing out of the Romevile fine;[197]
Now toure the cove that cly’d your duds,
Upon the chats to trine.

As this song is so old some of the expressions are obsolete, and their explanations are somewhat conjectural. The first verse translated reads as follows:――

Go out, good girls, and look and see,
Go out, good girls, and see;
For all your clothes are carried away,
And the good man has the money.

This was first printed in “_The English Rogue_: Described in the Life of Meriton Latroon, a Witty Extravagant. Being a Compleat History of the most Eminent Cheats of both sexes. London, Printed for Henry Marsh, at the Princes Arms in Chancery Lane, 1665.”

This curious work was reprinted by Chatto and Windus in 1874.

――――

FRISKY MOLL’S SONG.

From Priggs that snabble the Prancers strong,[198]
To you of the Peter Lay,[199]
I pray now listen awhile to my song,
How my Bowman[200] he kick’d away.

He broke through all the Rubbs[201] in the whit,
And chiv’d his Darbies[202] in twain;
But filing of a Rumbo-Ken,
My Bowman is snabbled again.

I, Frisky Moll, with my Rum Cull,[203]
Would suck in a Boozing Ken;
But e’er for the Scran[204] he had tipt the Cole,
The Harman he came in.

A Famble, a Tattle, and two Pops,[205]
Had my Bowman when he was ta’en;
But had we not booz’d in the Diddle shops,[206]
He’d still been in Drury Lane.

From “_Harlequin Sheppard_.” Acted at Drury Lane Theatre, 1724.

――――

THE CANTER’S SERENADE.

(Sung early in the morning, at the Barn doors where their Doxies have reposed during the night.)

Ye Morts and ye Dells[207]
Come out of your Cells,
And charm all the Palliards[208] about ye;
Here birds of all feathers,
Through deep roads and all weathers,
Are gathered together to toute[209] ye.

With faces of Wallnut,
And Bladder and Smallgut,
We’re come scraping and singing to rouse ye;
Rise, shake off your straw,
And prepare you each maw
To kiss, eat, and drink till you’re bouzy.

――――

ODE TO THE KING OF THE MENDICANTS.

Cast your nabs[210] and cares away,
This is Maunders holiday:[211]
In the world look out and see,
Where so blest a King as he!

At the crowning of our King,
Thus we ever dance and sing;
Where’s the nation lives so free,
And so merrily as we?

Be it peace, or be it war,
Here at liberty we are:
Hang all Harmenbecks[212] we cry,
We the Cuffin Queres[213] defy.

We enjoy our ease and rest,
To the fields we are not pressed
And when taxes are increased
We are not a penny ’sessed.

Nor will any go to law,
With a Maunder for a straw,
All which happiness, he brags,
Is only owing to his rags.

From _The History of Bampfylde-Moore Carew_, King of the Mendicants. London, 1749.

――――

OATH OF THE CANTING CREW.

I, Crank-Cuffin, swear to be
True to this fraternity;
That I will in all obey
Rule and order of the lay.
Never blow the gab, or squeak;
Never snitch to bum or beak;
But religiously maintain
Authority of those who reign
Over Stop Hole Abbey Green,
Be their tawny king, or queen.
In their cause alone will fight;
Think what they think, wrong or right;
Serve them truly, and no other,
And be faithful to my brother;
Suffer none, from far or near,
With their rights to interfere;
No strange Abram, ruffler crack,
Hooker of another pack,
Rogue or rascal, frater, maunderer,[214]
Irish toyle, or other wanderer;
No dimber damber,[215] angler, dancer,
Prig of cackler,[216] prig of prancer;[217]
No swigman, swaddler, clapper-dudgeon;
Cadge-gloak,[218] curtal, or curmudgeon;
No whip-jack, palliard, patrico;
No jarkman, be he high or low;
No dummerar, or romany;
No member of “_the Family_;”
No ballad-basket, bouncing buffer,
Nor any other, will I suffer;
But stall-off[219] now and for ever,
All outliers whatsoever;
And as I keep to the fore-gone,
So may help me Salamon!

From _The Life of Bampfylde-Moore Carew_.

――――

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF THE DARKMAN’S BUDGE,[220].

The Budge it is a delicate trade,
And a delicate trade of fame,
For when that we have bit the blow,
We carry away the game.
But if the cully naps us,
And the lurries from us takes;
O, then he rubbs us to the whit,[221]
Tho’ we’re hardly worth two makes.[222]

And when that we come to the whit,
Our darbies to behold;
We’re forced to do penance there,
And booze the water cold.
But when we come out again,
And the merry cull we meet,
We’ll surely file him of his cole,[223]
As he pikes along the street.

And when that we have filed him,
Tho’t be but half a job;
Then ev’ry man to the boozing ken,
To fence his merry hog;[224]
But if the cully naps us,
For want of care or wit,
Tho’ he cannot take away our cole,
He rubbs us to the whit.

And when we come unto the whit,
For garnish[225] they do cry;
We promise our lusty comrogues
They shall have it by and bye;
Then ev’ry man, with his Mort[226] in his hand,
Is forc’d to kiss and part;
And after, is divorced away,
To the nubbing-cheat[227] in a cart.

And we come to the Nubbing-cheat,
For running on the budge;
There stands Jack Ketch, that sneaking wretch,
Who owes us all a grudge:
For when that he hath nubbed us,
And our friends tip him no cole,
He takes his chive,[228] and cuts us down,
And tips us into the hole.

But if we have a friend stand by,
Six and eightpence for to pay,
Then they may have our bodies back,
And carry us quite away:
For at St. Giles’s or St. Martin’s,
A burying place is still;
And there’s an end of a Darkman’s Budge,
And the whoreson hath his will.

――――

THE GAME OF HIGH TOBY.

Now Oliver[229] puts his black nightcap on,
And every star its glim[230] is hiding,
And forth to the heath is the scampsman[231] gone,
His matchless cherry-black[232] prancer riding;
Merrily over the common he flies,
Fast and free as the rush of rocket,
His crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes,
His tol[233] by his side, and his pops[234] in his pocket.

_Chorus._
Then who can name
So merry a game,
As the game of all games――high toby?[235]

The traveller hears him, away! away!
Over the wide wide heath he scurries;
He heeds not the thunderbolt summons to stay,
But ever the faster and faster he hurries.
But what daisy-cutter can match that black tit?
He is caught――he must “stand and deliver;”
Then out with the dummy,[236] and off with the bit,[237]
Oh! the game of high toby for ever!

_Chorus._
Then who can name
So merry a game,
As the game of all games――high toby?

Believe me, there is not a game, my brave boys,
To compare with the game of high toby;
No rapture can equal the tobyman’s joys,
To blue devils, blue plumbs[238] give the go by;
And what if, at length, boys, he come to the crap![239]
Even rack punch has _some_ bitter in it,
For the mare-with-three-legs,[240] boys, I care not a rap,
’Twill be over in less than a minute!

_Grand Chorus._
Then hip, hurrah!
Fling care away!
Hurrah for the game of high toby.

From _Rookwood_, by W. Harrison Ainsworth. London.

――――

THE DOUBLE CROSS.

Though all of us have heard of _crost_ fights,
And certain _gains_, by certain _lost_ fights;
I rather fancies that it’s news,
How in a mill, _both_ men should _lose_;
For vere the _odds_ are thus made _even_,
It plays the dickens with the _steven_;[241]
Besides, against all rule they’re sinning,
Vere _neither_ has _no_ chance of vinning.
_Ri, tol, lol, &c._

Two _milling coves_, each vide avake,
Vere backed to fight for heavy stake;
But in the mean time, so it vos,
Both _kids_ agreed _to play a cross_;
Bold came each _buffer_[242] to the _scratch_,
To make it look a _tightish match_;
They _peeled_[243] in style, and bets were making,
’Tvos six to four, but few were _taking_.
_Ri, tol, lol, &c._

Quite cautiously the mill began,
For neither knew the other’s plan;
Each _cull_[244] completely in the _dark_,
Of vot might be his neighbour’s _mark_;
Resolved his _fibbing_[245] not to mind,
Nor yet to _pay him back in kind_;
So on each other _kept they tout_,[246]
And _sparred_ a bit, and _dodged_ about.
_Ri, tol, lol, &c._

Vith _mawleys_[247] raised, Tom bent his back,
As if to plant a heavy thwack;
Vile Jem, with neat left-handed _stopper_,
Straight threatened Tommy with a _topper_;
’Tis all my eye! no claret flows,
No _facers_ sound――no smashing blows,
Five minutes pass, yet not a _hit_,
How can it end, pals?――vait a bit.
_Ri, tol, lol, &c._

Each cove vos _teazed_ with double duty,
To please his backers, yet _play booty_,[248]
Ven, luckily for Jem, a _teller_
Vos planted right upon his _smeller_;
Down dropped he, stunned; ven time was called,
Seconds in vain the _seconds_ bawled;
The _mill_ is o’er, the crosser _crost_,
The loser’s _won_, the vinner’s _lost_!
_Ri, tol, lol, &c._

From _Rookwood_, by W. Harrison Ainsworth, London.

――――

A FLASH ANECDOTE.

I buzzed a bloak and a shakester of a reader and a skin. My jomer stalled. A cross cove, who had his regulars, called out “cop bung,” so as a pig was marking, I speeled to the crib, where I found Jim had been pulling down sawney for grub. He cracked a case last night and fenced the swag. He told me as Bill had flimped a yack and pinched a swell of a fawney, he sent the yack to church and got three finnups and a cooter for the fawney.

TRANSLATION.

I picked the pockets of a gentleman and lady of a pocket book and a purse. My fancy girl screened me from observation. A fellow thief, who shared my plunder, called out to me to hand over the stolen property, so as someone was observing my actions, I ran off to the house, where Jim had some bacon he had stolen from a shop door. He broke into a house last night, and had sold the stolen property. He told me that Bill had hustled a man and stolen his watch, and had also robbed a gentleman of a ring. He had sent the watch to have its works removed, and had got three five pound notes and a sovereign for the ring.

From _Poverty, Mendicity and Crime_, 1839.

――――

THE LEARY MAN.

Of ups and downs I’ve felt the shocks
Since days of bats and shuttlecocks,
And alicumpaine and Albert-rocks,
When I the world began;
And for these games I often sigh
Both marmoney and spanish-fly,
And flying kites too, in the sky,
For which I’ve often ran.

But by what I’ve seen, and where I’ve been,
I’ve always found it so.
That if you wish to learn to live,
Too much you cannot know.
For you must now be wide-awake,
If a living you would make,
So I’ll advise what course to take
To be a Leary Man.

Go first to costermongery
To every _fakement_ get _a-fly_
And pick up all their slangery,
But let this be your plan;
Put up with no _Kieboshery_
But look well after _poshery_,
And cut teetotal sloshery.
And get drunk when you can.

And when you go to spree about,
Let it always be your pride
To have a white tile on your nob,
And bulldog by your side.
Your _fogle_ you must _flashly_ tie
Each word must _patter flashery_,
And hit _cove’s_ head to smashery,
To be a Leary Man.

To Covent Garden or Billingsgate
You of a morn must not be late,
But your donkey drive at a slashing rate,
And first be if you can.
From short pipe you must your bacca blow,
And if your donkey will not go,
To lick him you must not be slow,
But well his _hide must tan_.

The fakement _conn’d_ by _knowing rooks_
Must be well known to you,
And if you come to _fibbery_,
You must _mug_ one or two.
Then go to St. Giles’s rookery,
And live up some strange nookery,
Of no use domestic cookery,
To be a Leary Man.

Then go to pigeon fancery
And know each breed by quiz of eye,
Bald-heads from skin ’ems by their fly,
Go wrong you never can.
All fighting coves too you must know,
Ben Caunt as well as Bendigo,
And to each _mill_ be sure to go,
And be one of the van.

Things that are found before they’re lost,
Be always first to find.
Restore dogs for a pound or two
You’ll do a thing that’s kind.
And you must sport a blue _billy_,
Or a yellow _wipe_ tied loosily
Round your _scrag_ for _bloaks_ to see
That you’re a Leary Man.

At _knock’emsdown_ and tiddlywink,
To be a sharp you must not shrink,
But be a _brick_ and sport your _chink_
To win must be your plan.
And set-toos and cock-fighting
Are things you must take delight in,
And always try to be right in,
And every _kidment_ scan.

And bullying and chaffing too,
To you should be well known,
Your nob be used to bruisery,
And hard as any stone.
Put the kiebosh on the dibbery,
Know a Joey from a tibbery,
And now and then have a black eye,
To be a Leary Man.

To fairs and races go must you,
And get in rows and fights a few,
And stopping out all night its’ true,
Must often be your plan.
And as through the world you _budgery_,
Get well awake to _fudgery_,
And rub off every _grudgery_,
And do the best you can.

But mummery and slummery
You must keep in your mind,
For every day, mind what I say,
Fresh fakements you will find.
But stick to this while you can crawl,
To stand ’till you’re obliged to fall,
And when you’re wide awake to all
You’ll be a Leary Man.

From _The Vulgar Tongue_, by Ducange Anglicus. London, Bernard Quaritch, 1857.

――――

THE SONG OF THE YOUNG PRIG.

My Mother she dwelt in Dyot’s Isle,[249]
One of the Canting Crew,[250] sirs;
And if you’d know my father’s style,
He was the Lord _Knows-who_, sirs!
I first held horses in the street,
But being found defaulter,
Turned rumbler’s flunky[251] for my meat,
So was brought up to the halter.

Frisk the cly[252], and fork the rag[253],
Draw the fogles plummy[254],
Speak to the tattler[255], bag the swag[256],
And finely hunt the dummy[257].

My name they say is Young Birdlime,
My fingers are fish-hooks sirs;
And I my reading learnt-betime,
From studying pocket-books[258], sirs.
I have a sweet eye for a plant[259],
And graceful as I amble,
Finedraw a coat-tail sure I can’t,
So kiddy is my famble[260].

_Chorus._ Frisk the cly, etc.,

A night bird,[261] oft I’m in the cage[262],
But my rum chants ne’er fail, sirs,
The dubsman’s[263] senses to engage,
While I tip him leg-bail[264], sirs.
There’s not, for picking, to be had,
A lad so light and larky[265],
The cleanest angler on the pad[266],
In daylight or the darkey[267].

_Chorus._ Frisk the cly, etc.,

And though I don’t work capital[268],
And do not weigh my weight[269], sirs,
Who knows but that in time I shall,
For there’s no queering fate, sirs.
If I’m not lagged to Virgin-nee[270],
I may a Tyburn show be[271],
Perhaps a tip-top cracksman[272] be
Or go on the high toby[273].

_Chorus._ Frisk the cly, etc.,

From _The Life and Times of James Catnach_, by Charles Hindley. London, Reeves and Turner. 1878.

――――

THE DEATH OF SOCRATES.
_By the Rev. Robt. Burrowes, Dean of St. Finbar’s Cathedral, Cork._

The night before Larry was stretch’d,
The boys they all paid him a visit;
A bit in their sacks, too, they fetch’d――
They sweated their duds[274] till they riz it;
For Larry was always the lad,
When a friend was condemn’d to the squeezer[275],
But he’d pawn all the togs that he had,
Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer[276],
And moisten his gob ’fore he died.

“’Pon my conscience, dear Larry,” says I,
“I’m sorry to see you in trouble,
And your life’s cheerful noggin run dry,
And yourself going off like its bubble!”
“Hould your tongue in that matter,” says he;
“For the neckcloth I don’t care a button,
And by this time to-morrow you’ll see
Your Larry will be dead as mutton:
All for what? ’kase his courage was good!”

The boys they came crowding in fast;
They drew their stools close round about him,
Six glims[277] round his coffin they placed――
He couldn’t be well waked without ’em.
I ax’d if he was fit to die,
Without having duly repented?
Says Larry, “That’s all in my eye,
And all by the clargy invented,
To make a fat bit for themselves.”

Then the cards being call’d for, they play’d,
Till Larry found one of them cheated;
Quick he made a hard rap at his head――
The lad being easily heated,
“So ye chates me bekase I’m in grief!
O! is that, by the Holy, the rason?
Soon I’ll give you to know, you d――d thief!
That you’re cracking your jokes out of sason,
And scuttle your nob[278] with my fist.”

Then in came the priest with his book,
He spoke him so smooth and so civil;
Larry tipp’d him a Kilmainham look,
And pitch’d his big wig to the divil.
Then raising a little his head,
To get a sweet drop of the bottle,
And pitiful sighing he said,
“O! the hemp will be soon round my throttle[279],
And choke my poor windpipe to death!”

So mournful these last words he spoke,
We all vented our tears in a shower;
For my part, I thought my heart broke
To see him cut down like a flower!
On his travels we watch’d him next day,
O, the hangman I thought I could kill him!
Not one word did our poor Larry say,
Nor changed till he came to “King William:”
Och, my dear! then his colour turn’d white.

When he came to the nubbing cheat,
He was tuck’d up so neat and so pretty;
The rumbler jugg’d off from his feet,
And he died with his face to the city.
He kick’d too, but that was all pride,
For soon you might see ’twas all over;
And as soon as the noose was untied,
Then at darkey we waked him in clover,
And sent him to take a ground-sweat.

A French translation of this poem was written by the Rev. Francis Mahony, see “_The Works of Father Prout_.” London, George Routledge & Sons, 1881.

――――

’ARRY AT A POLITICAL PIC-NIC.

DEAR CHARLIE,

’Ow are yer, my ribstone? Seems scrumptious to write the old name.
I ’ave quite lost the run of you lately. Bin playing some dark little
game?
I’m keeping mine hup as per usual, fust in the pick of the fun,
For wherever there’s larks on the _tappy_[280] there’s ’Arry as sure
as a gun.

The latest new lay’s Demonstrations. You’ve heard on ’em, Charlie,
no doubt,
For they’re at ’em all over the shop. _I_’ave ’ad a rare bustle about.
All my Saturday arfs are devoted to Politics. Fancy, old chump,
_Me_ doing the sawdusty reglar,[281] and follering swells on the
stump!

But, bless yer, my bloater, it isn’t all chin-music[282] votes, and
“’Ear! ’ear!”
Or they wouldn’t catch me on the ready, or nail me for ninepence. No
fear!
Percessions I’ve got a bit tired of, hoof-padding,[283] and
scrouging’s dry rot,
But Political Picnics mean sugar to them as is fly to wot’s wot.

Went to one on ’em yesterday, Charlie; a reglar old up and down lark.
The Pallis free gratis, mixed up with a old country fair in a park,
And Rosherville Gardens chucked in, with a dash of the Bean Feast
will do,
To give you some little idear of our day with Sir Jinks Bottleblue.

Make much of us, Charlie? Lor bless you, we might ha’ bin blooming
Chinese
A-doing the rounds at the ’Ealthries. ’Twas regular go as you please.
Lawn-tennis, quoits, cricket, and dancing for them as _must_ be on the
shove,
But I preferred pecking[284] and prowling, and spotting the mugs
making love.

Don’t ketch _me_ a-slinging my legs about arter a beast of a ball
At ninety degrees in the shade or so, Charlie, old chap, not at all.
Athletics ’aint ’ardly my form, and a cutaway coat and tight bags
Are the species of togs for yours truly, and lick your loose
“flannels” to rags.

So I let them as liked do a swelter; I sorntered about on the snap.
Rum game this yer Politics, Charlie, seems arf talkee-talkee and trap.
Jest fancy old Bluebottle letting “the multitood” pic-nic and lark,
And make Battersea Park of his pleasure-grounds, Bathelmy Fair of his
park!

“To show his true love for the People!” sez one vote-of-thanking
tall-talker,
And wosn’t it rude of a bloke as wos munching a bun to cry “Walker!”?
I’m Tory right down to my boots, at a price, and I bellered “’Ear,
’ear!”
But they don’t cop yours truly with chaff none the more, my dear
Charlie, no fear!

Old Bottleblue tipped me his flipper, and ’oped I’d “refreshed,” and
all that.
“Wy rather,” sez I, “wot do _you_ think?” at which he stared nto his
’at,
And went a bit red in the gills. Must ha’ thought me a muggins, old
man,
To ask sech a question of ’Arry――as though grubbing short was _his_
plan.

I went the rounds proper, I tell yer; ’twas like the free run of a
Bar,
And Politics wants lots o’ wetting. Don’t ketch me perched up on a
car,
Or ’olding a flag-pole no more. No, percessions, dear boy, ain’t my
fad,
But Political Pic-nics with fireworks, and plenty of swiz ain’t ’arf
bad.

The palaver was sawdust and treacle. Old Bottleblue buzzed for a bit,
And a sniffy young Wiscount in barnacles landed wot _’e_ thought a
’it;
Said old Gladstone wos like Simpson’s weapon, a bit of a hass and all
jor,
When a noisy young Rad in a wideawake wanted to give him wot for!

“Yah! boo! Turn ’im hout!” sings yours truly, a-thinkin’ the fun was
at ’and,
But, bless yer! ’twas only a sputter. I can’t say the meeting _looked_
grand.
Five thousand they reckoned us, Charlie, but if so I guess the odd
three
Were a-spooning about in the halleys, or lappin’ up buns and Bohea.

The band and the ’opping wos prime though, and ’Arry in course wos all
there.
I ’ad several turns with a snappy young party with stror coloured
’air.
Her name she hinformed me wos Polly, and wen, in my ’appiest style,
I sez, “Polly is nicer than Politics!” didn’t she colour and smile?

We got back jest in time for the Fireworks, a proper flare-up, and
no kid,
Which finished that day’s Demonstration, an’ must ’ave cost many a
quid.[285]
_Wot_ fireworks and park-feeds _do_ Demonstrate, Charlie, I’m blest
if I see,
And I’m blowed if I care a brass button, so long as I get a cheap
spree.

The patter’s all bow-wow, of course, but it goes with the buns and
the beer.
If it pleases the Big-wigs to spout, wy it don’t cost hus nothink
to cheer.
Though they _ain’t_ got the ’ang of it, Charlie, the toffs ain’t,――no
go and no spice!
Wy, I’d back Barney Crump at our Sing-song to lick ’em two times out
o’ twice!

Still I’m all for the Lords and their lot, Charlie. Rads are my
’orror, you know.
Change R into C and you’ve got ’em, and ’Arry ’ates anythink low.
So if Demonstrations means skylarks, and lotion as much as you’ll
carry,
These “busts of spontanyous opinion” may reckon all round
upon ’Arry.

_Punch._ October 11, 1884.

――――

LIFE IN GAOL.

Till seven we walk around the yard,
There is a man all you to guard,
If you put your hand out so,
Untoe the guv’nor you must go;
Eight o’clock is our breakfast hour,
Those wittles they do soon devour;
Oh! dear me, how they eat and stuff,
Lave off with less than half enough.
Nine o’clock you mount the mill,
That you mayn’t cramp from settin’ still,
If that be ever so against your will,
You must mount on the traädin’ mill.
There is a turnkey that you’ll find,
He is a raskill most unkind.
To rob poor prisoners he is that man,
To chaäte poor prisoners where he can,
At eleven o’clock we march upstairs
To hear the parson read the prayers.
Then we are locked into a pen――
It’s almost like a lion’s den.
There’s iron bars big round as your thigh
To make you of a prison shy.
At twelve o’clock the turnkey come;
The locks and bolts sound like a drum,
If you be ever so full of game,
The traädin’ mill it will you tame.
At one you mount the mill again,
That is labour all in vain.
If that be ever so wrong or right,
You must traäde till six at night.
Thursdays we have a jubal fraä
Wi’ bread and cheese for all the day.
I’ll tell you raälly, without consate,
For a hungry pig ’tis a charmin’ bait.
At six you’re locked into your cell,
There until the mornin’ dwell;
There is a bed o’ straw all to lay on,
There’s Hobson’s choice, there’s that or none.

From _The Chequers_, by James Runciman.

――――

THE TWENTY CRAFTSMEN.

_Described by the notorious thief-taker Jonathan Wild._

Good people, give ear, whilst a story I tell,
Of twenty black tradesmen who were brought up in hell,
On purpose poor people to rob of their due;
There’s none shall be nooz’d, if you find but one true.
The first was a Coiner, that stampt in a mould;
The second a Voucher to put off his gold.
_Tour you well; hark you well[286], see where they’re rubb’d,
Up to the nubbing cheat[287], where they are nubb’d._