Are the days then gone, when on Hounslow Heath We flashed our nags, When the stoutest bosoms quailed beneath The voice of Bags? Ne'er was my work half undone, lest I should be nabbed Slow was old Bags, but he never ceased Till the whole was grabbed. CHORUS. Till the whole was grabbed. When the slow coach paused, and the gemmen stormed, I bore the brunt; And the only sound which my grave lips formed Was "blunt,"--still "blunt"! Oh, those jovial days are ne'er forgot! But the tape lags-- When I be's dead, you'll drink one pot To poor old Bags! CHORUS. To poor old Bags! "Ay, that we will, my dear Bagshot," cried Gentleman George, affectionately; but observing a tear in the fine old fellow's eye, he added: "Cheer up! What, ho! cheer up! Times will improve, and Providence may yet send us one good year, when you shall be as well off as ever. You shakes your poll. Well, don't be humdurgeoned, but knock down a gemman." Dashing away the drop of sensibility, the veteran knocked down Gentleman George himself. "Oh, dang it!" said George, with an air of dignity, "I ought to skip, since I finds the lush; but howsomever here goes." GENTLEMAN GEORGE'S SONG. Air: "Old King Cole." I be's the cove, the merry old cove, Of whose max all the rufflers sing; And a lushing cove, I thinks, by Jove, Is as great as a sober king! CHORUS. Is as great as a sober king! Whatever the noise as is made by the boys At the bar as they lush away, The devil a noise my peace alloys As long as the rascals pay! CHORUS. As long as the rascals pay! What if I sticks my stones and my bricks With mortar I takes from the snobbish? All who can feel for the public weal Likes the public-house to be bobbish. CHORUS. Likes the public-house to be bobbish. "There, gemmen!" said the publican, stopping short, "that's the pith of the matter, and split my wig but I'm short of breath now. So send round the brandy, Augustus; you sly dog, you keeps it all to yourself."