"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man--cheer up!" I kindly said, "You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head: If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs, Perhaps your neck--then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs! "Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup; My landlady is Mrs. Jones--we must not keep her up-- There's roast potatoes at the fire,--enough for me and you-- Come home, you little vulgar Boy--I lodge at Number 2." I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy," I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,--that little vulgar Boy,-- And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex, "Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!" But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise, She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys." She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubb'd the delf, Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!" I did not go to Jericho--I went to Mr. Cobb--[40] I changed a shilling--(which in town the people call "a Bob")-- It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child-- And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!" When I came back I gazed about--I gazed on stool and chair-- I could not see my little friend--because he was not there! I peep'd beneath the table-cloth--beneath the sofa too-- I said, "You little vulgar Boy! why, what's become of you?" I could not see my table-spoons--I look'd, but could not see The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea; --I could not see my sugar-tongs--my silver watch--oh, dear! I know 'twas on the mantel-piece when I went out for beer. I could not see my Macintosh--it was not to be seen!-- Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green; My carpet-bag--my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,-- My roast potatoes!--all are gone!--and so's that vulgar Boy! I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below, "--Oh, Mrs. Jones! what _do_ you think?--ain't this a pretty go?-- --That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night, --He's stolen my things and run away!!"--Says she, "And sarve you right!!" * * * * * Next morning I was up betimes--I sent the Crier round, All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so; But when the Crier cried, "O Yes!" the people cried, "O No!" I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town, There was a Common-sailor-man a-walking up and down, I told my tale--he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well, And call'd me "Poor old Buffer!"--what that means I cannot tell.