Every man in his shoe Looks as if he would die-- 'Pon my soul it's true; What will you lay it's a lie? Limping London on pegs, Crown'd with victory's palms, Heroes without their legs Now are asking for alms; Cursing their liberal lot, And Bob's grandiloquent whims; Deuce in their locker a shot; Tho' lots, alas! in their limbs! We hardly know which to do; Whether to laugh or to cry-- Ton my soul it's true; What will y ou lay it's a lie? Read me a comical riddle, Paddy will say it comes pat-- Some men dance to the fiddle; Bob's men dance to the cat. Fine and flourishing speeches Lads like Wellington, scoff; They lead their troops on the breaches; Bobadil, he pulls'em off! Give the Devil his due. Bob's a garrulous Guy-- Ton my soul it's true; What will you lay it's a lie? “Well, I never see such a low, frothy, horrid, awful, dandified, grandified, twistified, mystified, play-going, pleasure-taking, public-house set as these rubbishing Scaramouches! It would be quite a charity to send'em all to the Treadmill, or there's no mystery in mousetraps!” “That little woman's tender mercies are cruel!” responded a voice behind, and leading captive a personage, who seemed to to wonder how the devil he got there!--a fierce, fidgety flounced madam, bounced past us with an air of inconceivable grandeur. It was Mrs. Flumgarten hooked on to the arm of Brummagem Brutus. A sudden rush, from a “conveyancer” being escorted to the _Pied Poudre_, * brought us to that ancient seat of justice.