Mr. Bubb ge-upp’d in vain, and strove to jerk the rein, Nobbs found he had his option to work or play; So he wouldn’t mend his pace, though they fain would have run race, To escape the merry gazers at the one horse chay. Now, good people laugh your fill, and fancy if you will, (For I’m fairly out of breath, and have had my say;) The trouble and the rout, to wrap and get them out, When they drove to their lodgings in their one horse chay. [Illustration] _THE LITERARY DUSTMAN._ SOME folks may talk of sense, egad! Vot holds a lofty station; But, tho’ a dustman, I have had A liberal _hedication_. And tho’ I never vent to school, Like many of my betters, A turnpike man, vot varnt no fool, He larnt me all my letters. _Chorus._ They calls me Adam Bell, ’tis clear, As Adam vos the fust man, And by a co-in-side-ance queer, Vy! I’m the fust of Dustmen! At sartin schools they makes boys write, Their Alphabets on sand, Sirs, So I thought dust vould do as vell, And larnt it out of hand, Sirs, Took in the _Penny Magazine_,[30] And _Johnson’s Dictionary_, And all the Pe-ri-odi-cals, To make me _literary_. My dawning genus fust did peep, Near Battle Bridge[31] ’tis plain, Sirs, You recollect the cinder heap, Vot stood in Gray’s Inn Lane, Sirs?[32] ’Twas there I studied pic-turesque, Vile I my bread vos yearnin’, And there inhalin’ the fresh breeze,[33] _I sifted out my larnin_. Then Mrs. Bell, ’twixt you and I, Vould melt a heart of stone, Sirs, To hear her, pussy’s wittals cry, In such a barrow tone, Sirs. My darters all take arter her, In grace and figure easy, They larns to sing, and as they’re fat, I has ’em taught by _Grizi_. Ve dines at four, and arter that, I smokes a mild Awanna, Or gives a lesson to the lad, Upon the grand pianna: Or vith the gals valk a _quod-rille_, Or takes a cup of corf-fee, Or, if I feels fatig’d or ill, I lounges on the _sophy_. Or arter dinner reads a page, Of Valter Scott, or Byron, Or Mr. _Shikspar_ on the stage, Subjects none can tire on; At night ve toddles to the play, But not to gallery attic, Drury Lane’s the time o’ day, And quite _aristocratic_. I means to buy my eldest son A commission in the Lancers, And make my darters, every one, Accomplished Hopra dancers. Great sculptors all conwarse with me, And call my taste diwine, Sirs, King George’s _statty_ at King’s Cross,[34] Vos built from my design, Sirs. And, ven I’m made a Member on, For that I means to try, Sirs, Mr. Gully fought his way,[35] And verefore shouldn’t I, Sirs. Yes, ven I sits in Parliment, In old Sir Steven’s College, I means to take, ’tis my intent, The taxes off of knowledge. _Chorus._