Log. And I’ll take pity on that charming beggar.
Song of the Cadgers in the Holy Land.
Come, let us dance and sing,
While fam’d St. Giles’ bells shall ring,
Black Billy scrapes the fiddle strings,
Little Jemmy fills the Chair.
Frisk away, let’s be gay,
This is Cadger’s holiday;
While knaves are thinking, we are drinking,
Bring in more gin and beer.
Come, let us dance and sing, &c.
Here’s Dough-boy Bet, and Silver Sall,
Lushy Bob, and Yankee Moll,
And Suke, as black as any pall,
The pinks of the Holy Land.
Now, merry, merry, let us be,
There’s none more happier sure than we,
For what we get we spend it free,
As all must understand!
Come, let us dance, &c.
Now he that would merry be,
Let him drink and sing as we,
In palaces you shall not see,
Such happiness as here.
Then booze about, our cash an’t out,
Here’s sixpence in a dirty clout;
Come landlord bring us in more stout,
Our pension-time draws near.
Come, let us dance, &c.
Enter LANDLORD with supper.
Land. Now, your honours, here’s the rum peck, here’s the supper.
Billy. Eh, de supper! de supper! come along, (After striking Creeping Jack on fingers with knife). You damn nasty dog! what for you put your dirty fingers in de gravy? you call that gentlemans? you want your finger in de pie, now you got him there!
Jack. I only wish’d to taste the stuffining.
Billy. And now you taste de carver knife instead! (takes candle, and looks at supper). Vy, what him call dis?
Land. Why, the turkey and the pie, to be sure.
Billy. De turkey and de pie! I tink you said de turkey and de pie,—what! de turkey without de sassinger! him shock—him wouldn’t give pin for turkey without dem—me like a de Alderman in chain.
Land. I’m very sorry, Mr. Waters, but—