Spring's the boy for a Moulsey-Hurst rig, my lads, Shaking a flipper, and milling a pate; Fibbing a nob is most excellent gig, my lads, Kneading the dough is a turn-out in state. Tapping the claret to him is delighting, Belly-go-firsters and clicks of the gob; For where are such joys to be found as in fighting, And measuring mugs for a chancery job: With flipping and milling, and fobbing and nobbing, With belly-go-firsters and kneading the dough, With tapping of claret, and clipping and gobbing, Say just what you please, you must own he's the go. II Spring's the boy for flooring and flushing it, Hitting and stopping, advance and retreat, For taking and giving, for sparring and rushing it, And will ne'er say enough, till he's down right dead beat; No crossing for him, true courage and bottom all, You'll find him a rum un, try on if you can; You shy-cocks, he shows 'em no favour, 'od rot 'em all, When he fights he trys to accomplish his man; With giving and taking, and flooring and flushing, With hitting and stopping, huzza to the ring, With chancery suiting, and sparring and rushing, He's the champion of fame, and of manhood the spring. III Spring's the boy for rum going and coming it, Smashing and dashing, and tipping it prime, Eastward and westward, and sometimes back-slumming it, He's for the scratch, and come up too in time; For the victualling-office no favor he'll ask it, For smeller and ogles he feels just the same; At the pipkin to point, or upset the bread-basket, He's always in twig, and bang-up for the game; With going and tipping, and priming and timing 'Till groggy and queery, straight-forwards the rig; With ogles and smellers, no piping and chiming, You'll own he's the boy that is always in twig. BOBBY AND HIS MARY [Notes] [1826] [From _Universal Songster_, iii. 108]. Tune--_Dulce Domum_. In Dyot-street a booze-ken stood, [1] Oft sought by foot-pads weary, And long had been the blest abode Of Bobby, and his Mary. For her he'd nightly pad the hoof, [2] And gravel tax collect [3] For her he never shammed the snite. Though traps tried to detect him; [4] When darkey came he sought his home While she, distracted blowen [5] She hailed his sight, And, ev'ry night The booze-ken rung As they sung, O, Bobby and his Mary. II But soon this scene of cozey fuss Was changed to prospects queering The blunt ran shy, and Bobby brush'd, [6] To get more rag not fearing; [7] To Islington he quickly hied, A traveller there he dropped on; The traps were fly, his rig they spied [8] And ruffles soon they popped on. [9] When evening came, he sought not home, While she, poor stupid woman, Got lushed that night, [10] Oh, saw his sprite, Then heard the knell That bids farewell! Then heard the knell Of St. Pulchre's bell! [11] Now he dangles on the Common.