To some staunch friend is the decision left, Some sturdy swearing the event requires, E’en the chous’d fools are conscious of the theft, E’en on their oaths would not believe such liars! For thee, who, absent from the wonted game, Dost think these lines some pointed truths relate, If, when is heard the mention of thy name, Some fellow-sufferer shall ask thy fate: Haply some wight loquacious may reply, “Oft-times we met him at approach of night, “Brushing with haste along the streets hard by, “As if all matters were not going right. “There, in some house where charges are not high, “And penny candles shed a glimm’ring light, “He give the maid some cheap-bought scrap to fry, “Of which he’d eat with ravenous delight. “There in some corner shunning to be seen, “He’d draw his hat down o’er his prying eyes, “Or with a handkerchief his visage screen, “Like one who fear’d a capture by surprise. “One night we miss’d him in his usual seat, “We searched both kitchen and the scullery; “We search’d again, nor in his old retreat, “Nor at the _Tun_, nor at the _Bell_ was he. “At length a letter to discovery led, “With separate notice serv’d at each friend’s door “Reminding his creditors he was not dead, “But meant to _live_ to owe them something more.” THE LETTER. Here rots in jail, with scarce one hope on earth, A wretch that’s sacrificed to love of play; Success, _at first_ to golden dreams gave birth, And fortune flatter’d _only_ to betray. Large were his LOSSES, yet no _loss_ deterr’d, Those mischiefs followed, such as seldom fail: He gave his friends (_t’was all he’d left_) his _word_, He gained by Hazard (_as most do_) a JAIL! Seek not his future projects to reveal, Nor draw conclusions to prejudge the fact; In anxious dread (_which most of you must feel_), He waits the benefit of the INSOLVENT ACT. From _Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports_. 1832. ――――:o:―――― DRY GOODS: AN ELEGY. _A Manchester Parody._ The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The trading herd wind slowly to their tea, The buyers _Inn_-ward wend their weary way, And leave the street to darkness and to me. Now roll the bleachers’ waggons from my sight, “The market” now a solemn stillness holds, Save where some straggler piles a dizzy height Of “Blackburn seventies,” in unnumber’d folds. Save that some _Charley_ hoarsely bawls the hour, Proves all the padlocks, or may chance complain To such as, wand’ring near his nightly bower, Molest his vigilant and _virtuous_ reign. Beneath their dimities the men of trade, ’Till _rainy day_ upon their eye-lids peep, (Each in his narrow crib in comfort laid,) The clerk and master innocently sleep.