Paul Clifford — Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

my hair.

                          Rise at six, dine at two,

                          Rob your man without ado,

                          Such my maxims; if you doubt

                          Their wisdom, to the right-about!

      ( Signing to a sallow gentleman on the same side of the table to send up the brandy bowl.)

                          Pass round the bingo,—of a gun,

                          You musty, dusky, husky son!

                          John Bull, who loves a harmless joke,

                          Is apt at me to grin;

                          But why be cross with laughing folk,

                          Unless they laugh and win?

                          John Bull has money in his box;

                          And though his wit’s divine,

                          Yet let me laugh at Johnny’s locks,

                          And John may laugh at mine

      [Much of whatever amusement might be occasioned by the not (we trust) ill-natured travesties of certain eminent characters in this part of our work when first published, like all political allusions, loses point and becomes obscure as the applications cease to be familiar.  It is already necessary, perhaps, to say that Fighting Attie herein typifies or illustrates the Duke of Wellington’s abrupt dismissal of Mr. Huskisson.]

THE SALLOW GENTLEMAN (in a hoarse voice)

                        Attie, the bingo’s now with me;

                        I can’t resign it yet, d’ ye see!

ATTIE (seizing the bowl)

                        Resign, resign it,—cease your dust!

          (Wresting it away and fiercely regarding the sallow gentleman.)

                        You have resigned it, and you must.

CHORUS

                        You have resigned it, and you must.

      While the chorus, laughing at the discomfited tippler, yelled forth the emphatic words of the heroic Attie, that personage emptied the brandy at a draught, resumed his pipe, and in as few words as possible called on Bagshot for a song. The excellent old highwayman, with great diffidence, obeyed the request, cleared his throat, and struck off with a ditty somewhat to the tune of “The Old Woman.”

OLD BAGS’S SONG

                     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?