Some for the odd trick pushing hard—'
Some that they lose it pale with fear—
Some betting on the turn-up card—
Some drawing cuts for pints of beer.
Whilst others brawl about Jack's brock,
That all the Chowden dogs can bang;
Or praise "Lang Wilson's" piley cock,
Or Dixon's feats upon the swang.
Here Tom, the pink of bowlers, gain'd
Himself a never-dying name,
By deeds, wherein an ardour reign'd,
Which neither age nor toil could tame.
For labour done, and o'er his dose,
Tom took his place upon the hill;
And at the very evening's close
You faintly saw him bowling still.
All this display of pith and zeal
Was so completely habit grown,
That many an hour from sleep he'd steal
To bowl upon the hill alone.
The night wears late—the wives drop in
To take a peep at what is doing;
For many would not care a pin
To lose at cards a fortnight's hewing.
Poor Will had just his plagues dismiss'd,
And had "Begone, dull Care" begun,
With face as grave as Methodist,
And voice most sadly out of tune;
But soon as e'er he Nelly saw,
With brows a dreadful storm portending,
He dropt at once his under jaw,
As if his mortal race was ending;—
For had the grim destroyer stood,
In all his ghastliness before him,
It could not more have froze his blood,
Nor thrown a deadlier paleness o'er him.
His better half, all fire and tow,
Call'd him a slush—his comrades raff—
Swore that he could a brewing stow,
And after that sipe all the draff.