Part 60 (1/2)

Billy Sams is a loyal believer, And publishes prints by the score; But his likeness, I will not deceive her, Of Chester _is not con amore_.

If the world you are ganging to see, Its manners and customs to note, In the Strand, you must call upon Leigh, Where you'll find a directory wrote.

Cincinnatus like, guiding the plough, On Harding each farmer still looks; Clerc Smith is the man for a bow, And his shop is as famous for books.

_Facetiae_ collectors, give ear, Who with Mack letter spirits would deal; If rich in old lore you'd appear, Pay a visit to Priestley and Weale.

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There's Ogle, and Westley, and Black, With Mawman, and Kirby, and Cole, And Souter, and Wilson--alack!

I cannot distinguish the whole.

For Robins, and Hunter, and Poole, And Evans, and Scholey, and Co.

Would fill out my verse beyond rule, And my Pegasus halts in the Bow.

The radicals all are done up; Sedition is gone to the dogs; And Benbow and Cobbett may sup With their worthy relations the Hogs.

So here I will wind up my list With Underwood, Callow, and Highley; Who bring to the medicals grist, By books on diseases wrote dryly.

Just one word at parting I crave-- If Italian, French, German, or Dutch, To bother your noddle you'd have, Send to Berthoud, or Treuttel and Wurtz,

Or Zotti, or Dulau, or Bohn, But they're all very good in their way; Bossange, Bothe, Boosey and Son, All expect _Monsieur Jean_ Bull to pay.

”A right merrie conceit it is,” said Blackstrap, ”and an excellent memoranda of the eminent book-sellers of the present time.” ”Ay, sir,”

continued the veteran; ”all our old ballads had the merit of being useful, as well as amusing. There was 'Chevy Chase, and 'King John and his Barons,' and 'Merry Sherwood,' all of them exquisite chants; conveying information to the mind, and relating some grand historical fact, while they charmed the ear. But ~262~~your modern kickshaws are all about 'No, my love, no,' or 'Sigh no more, lady,' or some such silly stuff that n.o.body cares to learn the words of, or can understand if they did. I remember composing a ballad in this town myself, some few years since, on a very strange adventure that happened to one of our commercial brethren. He had bought an old hunter at Bristol to finish his journey homeward with, on account of his former horse proving lame, and just as he was entering Cheltenham by the turnpike-gate at the end of the town, the whole of the Berkeley Hunt were turning out for a day's run, and having found, shot across the road in full cry. Away went the dogs, and away went the huntsmen, and plague of any other way would the old hunter go: so, despite of the two hundred weight of perfumery samples contained in his saddle-bags, away went Delcroix's deputy over hedge and ditch, and straight forward for a steeple chase up the Cleigh Hills; but in coming down rather briskly, the courage of the old horse gave way, and down he came as groggy before as a Chelsea pensioner, smas.h.i.+ng all the appendages of trade, and spilling their contents upon the ground, besides raising such an odoriferous effluvia on the field, that every one present smelt the joke.--But you shall have the song.”

THE KNIGHT OF THE SADDLE-BAGS;

A TRUE RELATION OF A TRAVELLER'S ADVENTURE AT CHELTENHAM.

Tune--The Priest of Kajaga.

A knight of the saddle-bags, jolly and gay, Rode near to blithe Cheltenham's town; His coat was a drab, and his wig iron-gray, And the hue of his nag was a brown.

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From Bristol, through Glo'ster, the merry man came; And jogging along in a trot, On the road happ'd to pa.s.s him, in pursuit of game, Of Berkeley's huntsmen a lot.

Tally-ho! tally-ho! from each voice did resound; Hark forward! now cheer'd the loud pack; Sir knight found his horse spring along like a hound,'

For the devil could not hold him back.

Away went sly Reynard, away went sir knight, With the saddle-bags beating the side Of his horse, as he gallop'd among them in fright; 'Twas in vain that the hunt did deride.

Now up the Cleigh Hills, and adown the steep vale, Crack, crack, went the girths of his saddle; Sir knight was dismounted, O piteous tale!

In wasjies the fishes might paddle.

As prostrate he lay, an old hound that way bent Gave tongue as he pa.s.s'd him along; Which attracted the pack, who thus drawn by the scent, Would have very soon ended his song.