SCENE.—Tom Cribb’s parlour.—Swell coves, Millers, &c., drinking and blowing their clouds; Tom, Jerry, Green, and Logic among them.—Cribb in the chair.—Chorus (Omnes).
Air.—“Oh, who has not heard of a Jolly Young Waterman.”
Oh, who has not heard of our gallant black diamond,
Who once down at Hungerford us’d for to ply?
His mawleys he us’d with such skill and dexterity,
Winning each mill, and making each miller fly!
He fibb’d so neat—he stopped so steadily;
He hit so straight—he floored so readily.
In every game ’twas the Cribb won it fair;
He’s Champion of England, and now fills the chair.
Cribb. Thank’ye, gentleman, thank’ye—but as I see by our sporting oracle, “The Dispatch,” there’s a mill on foot—I’ll give you, “May the best man win.”
(All drink). May the best man win.
Green. May the best man vin.
Log. With all my heart; but, zounds! we’ve almost buzz’d the bowl. Let’s have another, and dy’e hear, Tom, serve it up in your prize cup; Jerry hasn’t seen it, and we mustn’t omit that.
Cribb. With all my heart, Doctor; but you must stand a bottle to see the cup.