Forth rushed I. O. Uwins, faster
Than all winking—much afraid
That the orders of the master
Would be punctually obeyed:
Sought his club, and then the sentence
Of expulsion first he saw;
No one dared to own acquaintance
With a Bailiff’s son-in-law.
Uselessly, down Bond Street strutting,
Did he greet his friends of yore:
Such a universal cutting
Never man received before:
Till at last his pride revolted—
Pale, and lean, and stern he grew;
And his wife Rebecca bolted
With a missionary Jew.
Ye who read this doleful ditty,
Ask ye where is Uwins now?
Wend your way through London city,
Climb to Holborn’s lofty brow;
Near the sign-post of the “Nigger,”
Near the baked-potato shed,
You may see a ghastly figure
With three hats upon his head.
When the evening shades are dusky,
Then the phantom form draws near,
And, with accents low and husky,
Pours effluvium in your ear;
Craving an immediate barter
Of your trousers or surtout;
And you know the Hebrew martyr,
Once the peerless I. O. U.
The Knyghte and the Taylzeour’s Daughter.
Did you ever hear the story—
Old the legend is, and true—
How a knyghte of fame and glory
All aside his armour threw;