SONG—RIPEFORAJAIL.
Ripeforajail for an income is burning,
Ripeforajail has no taste for clod-turning,
Ripeforajail has no funds for gin-spinning,
Yet Ripeforajail has "Green" gold for the winning;
Come lend a kind ear to a betting muff's tale,
While he tells you the craft of bold Ripeforajail.
The Earl of Barepurse, o'er Newmarket doth ride,
And views his colt win in the very last stride,
Long odds for his net, and the Ring for his game,
Short whist for the wild, and the dice for the tame;
But the Tattersall gudgeons, and Crock pigeons pale,
Are less free to Earl Barepurse than Ripeforajail.
Ripeforajail, when his carcase was light,
Used to sweat and to curry a thoroughbred bright,
And when "grown overweight" the Kents turned him abroad.
To pick winners, in print he each week pledged his word;
Gents who love "the blue ribbon," and sport the blue veil,
Became quite confidential with Ripeforajail.
Ripeforajail to distinction is come,
He's no longer a tout, but he owns a flash home;
A fig for The Davis and 'cute Harry Hill!
They might lay the long odds, he lays longer odds still,
A baize board and counter, and weeds very stale,
Are the sole stock in trade of bold Ripeforajail.
The Cockburn was steel, and the Bethel was stone,
And Palmerston warned him he soon must be gone;
Fierce and loud this last week was the curse and the cry
Of his victims when shutters alone met the eye;
With their Goodwood deposits he gave them leg-bail,
And a cove at Boulogne looks like Ripeforajail.