That is, if it related to myself.
Suffice it to be told
In wealth he roll'd,
And being a fellow of some spirit,
Set up his coach;
To 'scape reproach,
He put the tailor on the shelf,
And thought to make his boy a man of merit.
On old Etona's classic ground,
Tom's infant years in circling round
Were spent 'mid Greek and Latin;
The boy had parts both gay and bright,
A merry, mad, facetious sprite,
With heart as soft as satin.
For sport or spree Tom never lack'd;
A con{21} with all, his sock he crack'd
With oppidan or gownsman:
Could smug a sign, or quiz the dame,
Or row, or ride, or poach for game,
With cads, or Eton townsmen.
Tom's admiral design'd,
Most dads are blind
To youthful folly,
That Tom should be a man of learning,
To show his parent's great discerning,
A parson rich and jolly.
To Oxford Tom in due time went,
Upon degree D.D. intent,
But more intent on ruin:
A Freshman, steering for the Port of Stuff's,{22}
Round Isle Matricula, and Isthmus of Grace,
Intent on living well and little doing.
Here Tom came out a dashing blood,
Kept Doll at Woodstock, and a stud
For hunting, race, or tandem;
Could bag a proctor, floor a raff,
Or stifle e'en a hull-dog's gaff,
Get bosky, drive at random.
21 Eton phraseology—A friend.
22 Oxford phraseology—All these terms have been explained
in an earlier part of the work.

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But long before the first term ended,
Tom was inform'd, unless he mended,
He'd better change his college.
Which said, the Don was hobbling to the shelf
Where college butler keeps his book of Battell;
Tom nimbly ran, erased his name himself,
To save the scandal of the students' prattle.
In Oxford, be it known, there is a place
Where all the mad wags in disgrace
Retire to improve their knowledge;
The town raff call it Botany Bay,
Its inmates exiles, convicts, and they say
Saint Alban takes the student refugees:
Here Tom, to 'scape Point Non plus, took his seat
After a waste of ready—found his feet
Safe on the shores of indolence and ease;
Here, 'mid choice spirits, in the Isle of Flip,
Dad's will, and sapping, valued not young snip;
Scapula, Homer, Lexicon, laid by,
Join'd the peep-of-day boys in full cry.{23}
A saving sire a sad son makes
This adage suits most modern rakes,
23 It was in the actual participation of these bacchanalian
orgies, during the latter days of Dr. W——y, the former
head of the Hall, when infirmities prevented his exercising
the necessary watchful-ness over the buoyant spirits
committed to his charge, that my friend Bob Transit and
myself were initiated into the mysteries of the Albanians.
The accompanying scene, so faithfully delineated by his
humorous pencil, will be fresh in the recollection of the
choice spirits who mingled in the joyous revelry. To
particularise character would be to "betray the secrets of
the prison-house," and is besides wholly unnecessary, every
figure round the board being a portrait; kindred souls,
whose merrie laughter-loving countenances and jovial
propensities, will be readily recognised by every son of
Alma Mater who was at Oxford during the last days of the
beaux esprits of Alban Hall. (See Plate.) In justice to
the learned Grecian who now presides, it should be told,
that these scenes are altogether suppressed.

And Tom above all others.
I should have told before, he was an only child,
And therefore privileged to be gay and wild,
Having no brothers,
Whom his example might mislead
Into extravagance, or deed
Ridiculous and foolish.
Three tedious years in Oxford spent,
In midnight brawl and merriment,
Tom bid adieu to college,
To cassock-robe of orthodox,
To construe and decline—the box,
Supreme in stable knowledge;
To dash on all within the ring,
Bet high, play deep, or rioting,
At Long's to sport his figure
In honour's cause, some small affair
Give modern bucks a finish'd air,
Tom pull'd the fatal trigger.
He kill'd his friend—but then remark,
His friend had kill'd another spark,
So 'twas but trick and tie.
The cause of quarrel no one knew,
Not even Tom,—away he flew,
Till time and forms of law,
To fashionable vices blind,
Excuses for the guilty find,
Call murder a faux pas.
The tinsell'd coat next struck his pride,
How dashing in the Park to ride
A cornet of dragoons;
Upon a charger, thorough bred,
To show off with a high plumed head,
The gaze of Legs and Spoons;
To rein him up in all his paces,
Then splash the passing trav'lers' faces,
And spur and caper by;

Get drunk at mess, then sally out
To Lisle-street fair, or beat a scout,
Or black a waiter's eye.
Of all the clubs,—the Clippers, Screws,
The Fly-by-nights, Four Horse, and Blues,
The Daffy, Snugs, and Peep-o-day,
Tom's an elect; at all the Hells,
At Bolton-Row, with tip-top swells,
And Tat's men, deep he'd play.
His debts oft paid by Snyder's{24} pelf,
Who paid at last a debt himself,
Which all that live must pay.
Tom book'd{25} the old one snug inside,
Wore sables, look'd demure and sigh'd
Some few short hours away;
Till from the funeral return'd,
Then Tom with expectation burn'd
To hear his father's will:—
"Twice twenty thousand pounds in cash,"—
"That's prime," quoth Tom, "to cut a dash
"At races or a mill,"—
"All my leaseholds, house and plate,
My pictures and freehold estate,
I give my darling heir;
Not doubting but, as I in trade
By careful means this sum have made,
He'll double it with care."—
"Ay, that I will, I'll hit the nick,
Seven's the main,—here Ned and Dick
Bring down my blue and buff;
Take off the hatband, banish grief,
'Tis time to turn o'er a new leaf,
Sorrow's but idle stuff."
Fame, trumpet-tongued, Tom's wealth reports,
His name is blazon'd at the courts
Of Carlton and the Fives.
His equipage, his greys, his dress,
His polish'd self, so like noblesse,
"Is ruin's sure perquise."
24 Flash for tailor.
25 Screwed up in his coffin.

Beau Brummell's bow had not the grace,
Alvanly stood eclipsed in face,
The Roués all were mute,
So exquisite, so chaste, unique,
The mark for every Leg and Greek,
Who play the concave suit.{26}
At Almack's, paradise o' the West,
Tom's hand by prince and peer is press'd,
And fashion cries supreme.
His Op'ra box, and little quean,
To lounge, to see, and to be seen,
Makes life a pleasant dream.
Such dreams, alas! are transient light,
A glow of brightness and delight,
That wakes to years of pain.
Tom's round of pleasure soon was o'er,
And clam'rous duns assail the door
When credit's on the wane.
His riches pay his folly's price,
And vanish soon a sacrifice,
Then friendly comrades fly;
His ev'ry foible dragg'd to light,
And faults (unheeded) crowd in sight,
Asham'd to show his face.
Beset by tradesmen, lawyers, bums,{21}
He sinks where fashion never comes,
A wealthier takes his place.
Beat at all points, floor'd, and clean'd out,
Tom yet resolv'd to brave it out,
36 Cards cut in a peculiar manner, to enable the Leg to
fleece his Pigeon securely.
27 "Persons employed by the sheriff to hunt and seize human
prey: they are always bound in sureties for the due
execution of their office, and thence are called Bound
Bailiff's, which the common people have corrupted into a
much more homely ex-pression—to wit, Bum-Bailiffs or
Bums."—l Black Com. 346.

If die he must, die game.
Some few months o'er, again he strays
'Midst scenes of former halcyon days,
On other projects bent;
No more ambitious of a name,
Or mere unprofitable fame,
On gain he's now intent,
To deal a flush, or cog a die,
Or plan a deep confed'racy
To pluck a pigeon bare.
Elected by the Legs a brother,
His plan is to entrap some other
In Greeting's fatal snare.
Here for a time his arts succeed,
But vice like his, it is decreed,
Can never triumph long:
A noble, who had been his prey,
Convey'd the well cogg'd bones away,
Exposed them to the throng.
Now blown, "his occupation's" o'er,
Indictments, actions, on him pour,
His ill got wealth must fly;
And faster than it came, the law
Can fraud's last ill got shilling draw,
Tom's pocket soon drain'd dry.
Again at sea, a wreck, struck down,
By fickle fortune and the town,
Without the means to bolt.
His days in bed, for fear of Bums,
At night among the Legs he comes,
Who gibe him for a dolt.
He's cut, and comrades, one by one,
Avoid him as they would a dun.
Here finishes our tale—
Tom Tick, the life, the soul, the whim
Of courts and fashion when in trim,
Is left—
WAITING FOR BAIL.

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