Away then he goes, for he’s quite in the dumps, And at the next door he gives some hard thumps; But on looking up you’d have thought he’d have swooned, For his tenants were gone by the light of the moon. Now, I’ll call on Mother Lushy. Well, my little girl, is your mother at home?--No, sir, she popped out as you popped in.--Has she left any rent for me?--Yes, sir, she has left 9d. in the teacup on the mantlepiece.--What, 9d. out of two months. Why your mother must think I’m a fool.--No, sir, mother says you’re an old rogue.--Well, tell her I shall send the broker.--She says you have broke her of the last 9d. she had.--Has your mother left any money in the teapot?--No, sir, there’s only a quartern of gin in it that mother was going to drink, but she went out in a hurry.--Ah, I suppose she knew I was coming.--Yes, Mrs. Longface told her the old rogue of a landlord was coming. You see how the tenants the landlords abuse, If you ask for your rent you’re sure to get abuse; They’ll pester your brains about lots of repairs, But who pays the rent, there is nobody cares. Well, Mrs Meek, have you got my rent ready this morning. Let me see, two weeks is 8s., and I’ll write you a receipt.--Sir, I am sorry, extremely sorry, very sorry, indeed, sir, but--if--Oh! hang your ifs and your buts, I suppose you mean to say that you have got no money for me?--No, sir, you seem quite out of temper this morning.--Temper! enough to make any man out of temper. I’ve been to a dozen houses, and can’t get no money. If I can’t get the rent next Monday I shall put a bailiff in and sell all off.--Stop! sir, stop, not quite so fast about selling; I am an old woman and can tell you a little about these houses, yes, I have lived many years in this neighbourhood, and can tell you that they are not yours at all.--Not mine! bless my soul the woman’s mad.--Not so mad as you may imagine, for I’ll tell you, your father was errand boy to old Mr Neasy. When he grew up he suffered him to gather his rents. To make long and short of the story, old Neasy and his wife died, and the son being abroad, your father claimed the houses, but I--Stop! stop! I don’t want to hear any more, but come over the way and have a drop of gin, and I’ll cross out the 8s. and you shall live rent free; but don’t say a word to the other tenants. So home he goes and thumps down his book, Makes his wife and his children begin for to look; Confound all the houses, they all shall be sold, And the old bricks and mortar I’ll turn into gold. TAYLOR, PRINTER, 92 & 93, BRICK LANE, SPITALFIELDS. HOW TO COOK A WIFE. [Illustration]