At the dirty end of Dirty Lane, Liv’d a dirty cobbler, Dick Maclane; His wife was in the old king’s reign A stout brave orange-woman. On Essex Bridge she strained her throat, And six-a-penny was her note. But Dickey wore a bran-new coat, He got among the yeomen. He was a bigot, like his clan, And in the streets he wildly sang, O Roly, toly, toly raid, with his old jade. He had troubles of divers kinds, and numerous interlopers to face and put down. Once an officious peeler arrested him as a vagabond, but was triumphantly routed amid the laughter of the court, when Moran reminded his worship of the precedent set by Homer, who was also, he declared, a poet, and a blind man, and a beggarman. He had to face a more serious difficulty as his fame grew. Various imitators started up upon all sides. A certain actor, for instance, made as many guineas as Moran did shillings by mimicking his sayings and his songs and his get-up upon the stage. One night this actor was at supper with some friends, when dispute arose as to whether his mimicry was overdone or not. It was agreed to settle it by an appeal to the mob. A forty-shilling supper at a famous coffee-house was to be the wager. The actor took up his station at Essex Bridge, a great haunt of Moran’s, and soon gathered a small crowd. He had scarce got through ‘In Egypt’s land, contagious to the Nile,’ when Moran himself came up, followed by another crowd. The crowds met in great excitement and laughter. ‘Good Christians,’ cried the pretender, ‘is it possible that any man would mock the poor dark man like that?’ ‘Who’s that? It’s some imposhterer,’ replied Moran. ‘Begone, you wretch! it’s you’ze the imposhterer. Don’t you fear the light of heaven being struck from your eyes for mocking the poor dark man?’ ‘Saints and angels, is there no protection against this? You’re a most inhuman blaguard to try to deprive me of my honest bread this way,’ replied poor Moran. ‘And you, you wretch, won’t let me go on with the beautiful poem. Christian people, in your charity, won’t you beat this man away? he’s taking advantage of my darkness.’ The pretender, seeing that he was having the best of it, thanked the people for their sympathy and protection, and went on with the poem, Moran listening for a time in bewildered silence. After a while Moran protested again with: ‘Is it possible that none of yez can know me? Don’t yez see it’s myself; and that’s some one else?’ ‘Before I can proceed any further in this lovely story,’ interrupted the pretender, ‘I call on yez to contribute your charitable donations to help me to go on.’ ‘Have you no sowl to be saved, you mocker of heaven?’ cried Moran, put completely beside himself by this last injury. ‘Would you rob the poor as well as desave the world? O, was ever such wickedness known?’