Gin! What is become of thy heart-chearing fire, And where is the beauty of Calvert's Intire? Does aught of its taste Double Gloucester beguile, That ham, those potatoes, why do they not smile, Ah! rot ye, I see what it was you were at, Why you knocked up your froth, why you flash'd off your fat: To roll in her ivory, to pleasure her eye, To be tipt by her tongue, on her stomach to lie. IX How slack is the crop till my Nancy return! No duds in my pocket, no sea-coal to burn! [9] Methinks if I knew where the watchman wou'd tread, I wou'd follow, and lend him a punch o' the head. Fly swiftly, good watchman, bring hither my dear, And, blast me! I'll tip ye a gallon of beer. [10] Ah, sink him! the watchman is full of delay, Nor will budge one foot faster for all I can say. X Will no blood-hunting foot-pad, that hears me complain, Stop the wind of that nabbing-cull, constable Payne? [11] If he does, he'll to Tyburn next sessions be dragg'd, And what kiddy's so rum as to get himself scragg'd? [12] No! blinky, discharge her, and let her return; For ne'er was poor fellow so sadly forlorn. Zounds! what shall I do? I shall die in a ditch; Take warning by me how you're leagu'd with a bitch. [1: companions] [2: accompanied] [3: jailed] [4: drink] [5: light-hearted] [6: picks oakum] [7: Notes] [8: gone] [9: money] [10: treat] [11: Note] [12: foolish] YE SCAMPS, YE PADS, YE DIVERS [Notes] [1781] [From _The Choice of Harlequin_: or _The Indian Chief_ by MR. MESSINK, and sung by JOHN EDWIN as "the Keeper of Bridewell"]. I Ye scamps, ye pads, ye divers, and all upon the lay, [1] In Tothill-fields gay sheepwalk, like lambs ye sport and play; [2] Rattling up your darbies, come hither at my call; I'm jigger dubber here, and you are welcome to mill doll. [3] With my tow row, etc. II At your insurance office the flats you've taken in, The game they've play'd, my kiddy, you're always sure to win; First you touch the shiners--the number up--you break, [4] With your insuring-policy, I'd not insure your neck. With my tow row, etc. III The French, with trotters nimble, could fly from English blows, [5] And they've got nimble daddles, as monsieur plainly shews; [6] Be thus the foes of Britain bang'd, ay, thump away, monsieur, The hemp you're beating now will make your solitaire. With my tow row, etc. IV My peepers! who've we here now? why this is sure Black-Moll: [7] My ma'am, you're of the fair sex, so welcome to mill doll; The cull with you who'd venture into a snoozing-ken, [8] Like Blackamore Othello, should "put out the light--and then." With my tow row, etc. V