What various swains our motley walls contain!―― Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane; Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court; From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain, Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane; The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark, The full-price master, and the half-price clerk; Boys who long linger at the gallery-door, With pence twice five――they want but twopence more; Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs. _Hard is the task who edits――thankless job._[5] A Sunday journal for the fractious mob: With bitter paragraph and caustic jest, He gives to turbulence the day of rest; Condemn’d, this week, rash rancour to instil, Or thrown aside, the next, for one who will: Alike undone or if he praise or rail (For this affects his safety, that his sale) He sinks at last, in luckless limbo set, If loud for libel, and if dumb for debt._ Critics we boast who ne’er their malice baulk, But talk their minds――we wish they’d mind their talk; Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live―― Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary, That for old clothes they’d even axe St. Mary; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Where scowling Fortune seem’d to threaten woe. John Richard William Alexander Dwyer Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; But when John Dwyer listed in the blues, Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs’s shoes. Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Up as a corn-cutter――a safe employ; In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred (At number twenty-seven, it is said), Facing the pump, and near the Granby’s Head: He would have bound him to some shop in town, But with a premium he could not come down. Pat was the urchin’s name――a red-hair’d youth, Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth. Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe, The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.