The richest cribs[76] shall our wants supply—
Or we’ll knap[77] a fogle[78] with fingers fly[79],
When the swell one turns his back.
The flimsies we can smash[80] as well,
Or a ticker[81] deftly prig;—
But if ever a pal in limbo fell,
He’d sooner be scragg’d[82] at once than tell;
Though the hum-box patterer[83] talked of hell,
And the beak[84] wore his nattiest wig[85]!
From “Pickwick Abroad; or, The Tour in France.” by G. W. M. Reynolds. (Chapter 26.)