But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing, Who, in fact, seem'd resolved to prevent his undressing, Using paws, tail, and head, As if he had said, "Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed; You had much better sit up, and pat me instead!" Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose, Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes, Spite of all he could do, The Dog jump'd up too, And kept him awake with his very cold nose; Scratching and whining, And moaning and pining, Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in Thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length The Dog scratch'd him off from the bed by sheer strength.
Extremely annoy'd by the "tarnation, whop," as it 's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite, Blogg show'd fight; When he saw, by the light Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright, Certain dark-colour'd stains, as of blood newly spilt, Reveal'd by the dog's having scratch'd off the quilt,— Which hinted a story of horror and guilt!— 'Twas "no mistake,"— He was "wide awake" In an instant; for, when only decently drunk, Nothing sobers a man so completely as "funk."
And hark!—what's that?— They have got into chat In the kitchen below—what the deuce are they at?— There's the ugly old Fisherman scolding his wife— And she!—by the Pope! she's whetting a knife!— At each twist Of her wrist, And her great mutton fist, The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder!— The fierce kitchen fire Had not made Blogg perspire Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder.— It ceases—all's silent!—and now, I declare There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair.
The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping;— He opens the door just sufficient to peep in, And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping! For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some "Precious mischief" on foot, had resolv'd to play "'Possum;"— Down he went, legs and head, Flat on the bed, Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead; While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing, Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring. Then, just as the villain Crept, stealthily still, in, And you'd not have insur'd his guest's life for a shilling, As the knife gleam'd on high, bright and sharp as a razor, Blogg, starting upright, "tipped" the fellow "a facer;"— —Down went man and weapon.—Of all sorts of blows, From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose.
Now, had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer, (Though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer, And say the first person Was call'd James M'Pherson, While, as to the second, they stoutly declare He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where,) Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter For the last twenty years, By the lively young Peers, Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat Boxers to "Max," at the One Tun in Jermyn Street;— —I say, could I borrow these Gentlemen's Muses, More skill'd than my meek one in "fibbings" and bruises, I'd describe now to you As "prime a Set-to," And "regular turn-up," as ever you knew; Not inferior in "bottom" to aught you have read of, Since Cribb, years ago, half knock'd Molyneux's head off. But my dainty Urania says, "Such things are shocking!" Lace mittens she loves, Detesting "The Gloves;" And turning, with air most disdainfully mocking, From Melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking. So, as far as I can see, I must leave you to "fancy" The thumps, and the bumps, and the ups and the downs, And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns, That pass'd 'twixt the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog, As Blogg roll'd over them, and they roll'd over Blogg; While what's called "The Claret" Flew over the garret: Merely stating the fact, As each other they whack'd, The Dog his old master most gallantly back'd; Making both the garçons, who came running in, sheer off, With "Hippolyte's" thumb, and "Alphonse's" left ear off Next, making a stoop on The buffeting group on The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's jupon; Then the old man turn'd up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's Tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancoes.— Really, which way This desperate fray Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say, The dog keeping thus the assassins at bay: But a few fresh arrivals decided the day; For bounce went the door, In came half a score Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more Who had aided the party in gaining the shore!
It's a great many years ago—mine then were few— Since I spent a short time in the old Courageux;— I think that they say She had been, in her day, A First-rate,—but was then what they term a Rasée,— And they took me on board in the Downs where she lay. (Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way.) In her I pick'd up, on that single occasion, The little I know that concerns Navigation, And obtained, inter alia, some vague information Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing, Is adopted on shipboard—I think it's call'd "Cobbing." How it's managed exactly I really can't say, But I think that a Boot-jack is brought into play— That is, if I'm right:—it exceeds my ability To tell how 'tis done; But the system is one Of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility. And, from all I can learn, I'd much rather be robb'd Of the little I have in my purse, than be "cobb'd;"— That's mere matter of taste: But the Frenchman was placed— I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced— In such a position, that, on this unmasking, His consent was the last thing the men thought of asking. The old woman, too, Was obliged to go through, With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew, Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them, "Cobb'd" the whole party,—ay, "every man Jack of them."
Moral.
And now, Gentle Reader, before that I say Farewell for the present, and wish you good day, Attend to the moral I draw from my lay!—