He rejoices, i'feggs! when bacon and eggs ' Smoke on the board, with a tankard of beer. Without much ado, his teeth fall to, The delicate viands vanish from view; O'er a glass of good liquor His heart beats the quicker, And he drinks to his kind host, as I drink to you. There's my card--(presenting a bill of the performances)--'Bonassus Bigstick, Esq. Bartholomew Fair.' I'll put you on our free list, which to all the world, but yourself and the public press, shall be unavoidably suspended! Ha!”--(scenting a rummer of hot punch that the _garçon_ placed before him)--“'brandy for heroes!' Welcome, old friend! for a' langsyne. Yet what is punch without a song? A clerk without a Cocker; a door without a knocker; a ship without a sailor; a goose without a tailor; a rhyme without a riddle; a bow without a fiddle; a priest without a pulpit; a stage without a full pit!--As you, sir, have been instrumental to my entertainment, let me be vocal for yours! _Omnibus tulip punctum_, as we say in the classics!--I'll give you an undress rehearsal of one of my crack songs for _tomorrow_ at Saint Bartlemy. All the world's a stage, the men and women actor folks, Very, very tragical, or very full of fun. Nature, in a merry mood, on some has, quizzing, crack'd her jokes; And Mr. Dicky Dunderhead of Dunstable is one. Ranting, tearing, stamping, staring; Whiskerandos, Do mine; Now he courts the comic muse, then ogles at Melpo mene; His funny eyes, funny mouth, funny chin, and funny nose, So queerly tool'd, are good as goold--and Dick the worth of money knows! Punch's scions, see the lions! Bartlemy, come startle me! Ladies and gentlemen, walk in, walk in! Shyloçk the Jew, the Brigand, and the Blackymoor, Nigger parlous! killing Carlos on his wedding-day; As Mother Cole, the canting soul, he drinks a drop of Jacky more; As Hamlet proud, he bellows loud, and scares the ghost away! The pit and box to sticks and stocks his acting surely turn'em would, When by the train to Dunsinane comes in a gallop Birnam Wood. “Avaunt i you fright, and quit my sight I a stool there's not, my trump, any; I'll thank'e, Banky, for your room! Old Nick may have your company!” Punch's scions, see the lions! Bartlemy, come startle me! Ladies and gentlemen, walk in, walk in! With Pantaloon and Columbine he skips, trips, and frisks along;