Step the Fourth.
O, for a Fogo's Muse to singThe glories of the Boxing Ring—Where Peer and Prig, and Sweep and Swell,Mix in the motley group pell-mell:A scene of frolic, row, and danger,Where honesty is oft a stranger;For doubtful are the chances nowOf triumph to the best man's brow.With equal grief and shame we tell it,'Tis "How much do ye ax to sell it?"O, for the fighting days of old,When men were neither bought nor sold;When victory was the aim alone,And fighting crosses all unknown.Amid the rabble monkey crew,See PUG, our hero, full in view—His brain with bruising science stored,Up to each move upon the board;How fluently he prates of flooring,Tapping the claret, fibbing, boring—Of Chancery-suits and body-battering.Ogles sew'd up, and ivories chattering.Eager to bet—a Sharper nowHas got our hopeful Sprig in tow—Though Mentor, to his pupil true,Hints pretty plainly its a DO."I'll book my man to win for sartin—Come, three to one on Bill, at starting?"Though Bill is certainly the strongest,Perhaps Jack's wind may last the longest.
O, for a Fogo's Muse to singThe glories of the Boxing Ring—Where Peer and Prig, and Sweep and Swell,Mix in the motley group pell-mell:A scene of frolic, row, and danger,Where honesty is oft a stranger;For doubtful are the chances nowOf triumph to the best man's brow.With equal grief and shame we tell it,'Tis "How much do ye ax to sell it?"O, for the fighting days of old,When men were neither bought nor sold;When victory was the aim alone,And fighting crosses all unknown.Amid the rabble monkey crew,See PUG, our hero, full in view—His brain with bruising science stored,Up to each move upon the board;How fluently he prates of flooring,Tapping the claret, fibbing, boring—Of Chancery-suits and body-battering.Ogles sew'd up, and ivories chattering.Eager to bet—a Sharper nowHas got our hopeful Sprig in tow—Though Mentor, to his pupil true,Hints pretty plainly its a DO."I'll book my man to win for sartin—Come, three to one on Bill, at starting?"Though Bill is certainly the strongest,Perhaps Jack's wind may last the longest.
O, for a Fogo's Muse to sing
The glories of the Boxing Ring—
Where Peer and Prig, and Sweep and Swell,
Mix in the motley group pell-mell:
A scene of frolic, row, and danger,
Where honesty is oft a stranger;
For doubtful are the chances now
Of triumph to the best man's brow.
With equal grief and shame we tell it,
'Tis "How much do ye ax to sell it?"
O, for the fighting days of old,
When men were neither bought nor sold;
When victory was the aim alone,
And fighting crosses all unknown.
Amid the rabble monkey crew,
See PUG, our hero, full in view—
His brain with bruising science stored,
Up to each move upon the board;
How fluently he prates of flooring,
Tapping the claret, fibbing, boring—
Of Chancery-suits and body-battering.
Ogles sew'd up, and ivories chattering.
Eager to bet—a Sharper now
Has got our hopeful Sprig in tow—
Though Mentor, to his pupil true,
Hints pretty plainly its a DO.
"I'll book my man to win for sartin—
Come, three to one on Bill, at starting?"
Though Bill is certainly the strongest,
Perhaps Jack's wind may last the longest.
GALLERY OF COMICALITIES—No. CXXXIX.
THE GAMBLER'S PROGRESS—STEP THE FIFTH.
Step the Fifth.
Hurrah for Epsom! Mount your prads,And start away, like knowing lads,To join the swarms of smiling facesThat throng delighted to the races.O, what a scene of joy and jolity,Of prancing, capering, and frivolity!Where many a swell whose means are scanty,Bestrides his batter'd Rosinante—Which, proud of such illustrious backers,Hails a short respite from the knackers.Go it! my heroes! man or monkeyMounted on blood, or hack, or donkey.Know many a youth, of spirit gay,Shall rue the racing of this day,And, mourning loss of cash and leather,Curse Oaks and Derby Stakes together.Where all the springs of fashion gay,Can Master Pug be absent? No.Still under Mentor's kind protection,He presses forward to perfection—With the top Coves can prate with spiritOf all their racers and their merit;Their action, colour, age, and bottom,Where they were foal'd, and who begot'em:Can bet and hedge, make sure to win,And take a well fled'gGreenhornin.Mentor, at distance, takes his seat,Intently gazing on the heat;Intending wisely, if he can,To line his purse, and fleece his man.
Hurrah for Epsom! Mount your prads,And start away, like knowing lads,To join the swarms of smiling facesThat throng delighted to the races.O, what a scene of joy and jolity,Of prancing, capering, and frivolity!Where many a swell whose means are scanty,Bestrides his batter'd Rosinante—Which, proud of such illustrious backers,Hails a short respite from the knackers.Go it! my heroes! man or monkeyMounted on blood, or hack, or donkey.Know many a youth, of spirit gay,Shall rue the racing of this day,And, mourning loss of cash and leather,Curse Oaks and Derby Stakes together.Where all the springs of fashion gay,Can Master Pug be absent? No.Still under Mentor's kind protection,He presses forward to perfection—With the top Coves can prate with spiritOf all their racers and their merit;Their action, colour, age, and bottom,Where they were foal'd, and who begot'em:Can bet and hedge, make sure to win,And take a well fled'gGreenhornin.Mentor, at distance, takes his seat,Intently gazing on the heat;Intending wisely, if he can,To line his purse, and fleece his man.
Hurrah for Epsom! Mount your prads,
And start away, like knowing lads,
To join the swarms of smiling faces
That throng delighted to the races.
O, what a scene of joy and jolity,
Of prancing, capering, and frivolity!
Where many a swell whose means are scanty,
Bestrides his batter'd Rosinante—
Which, proud of such illustrious backers,
Hails a short respite from the knackers.
Go it! my heroes! man or monkey
Mounted on blood, or hack, or donkey.
Know many a youth, of spirit gay,
Shall rue the racing of this day,
And, mourning loss of cash and leather,
Curse Oaks and Derby Stakes together.
Where all the springs of fashion gay,
Can Master Pug be absent? No.
Still under Mentor's kind protection,
He presses forward to perfection—
With the top Coves can prate with spirit
Of all their racers and their merit;
Their action, colour, age, and bottom,
Where they were foal'd, and who begot'em:
Can bet and hedge, make sure to win,
And take a well fled'gGreenhornin.
Mentor, at distance, takes his seat,
Intently gazing on the heat;
Intending wisely, if he can,
To line his purse, and fleece his man.
GALLERY OF COMICALITIES—No. CXL.
THE GAMBLER'S PROGRESS—STEP THE SIXTH.
Step the Sixth.
Where are the Dashers of the LandWho throng'd the Race Course "four-in-hand?"The splendid trappings—bang-up team—Have all departed like a dream,And Britzska, Landau, One-horse Shay,Are now the order of the day.See theEilwagenskims along,The wonder of a gazing throng,Who hail the Royal importation,A luxury to a lazy nation!—Here on a sofa you may shareSweet converse with a favourite fair,Or snugly when it suits the whim,Sloth may stretch out the lazy limb—The curtains of the carriage close,And sink delighted to repose—For such enjoyment thanks are due,O, Princely Cumberland! to you.Long may you rest your noble headOn this transcendent Carriage-bed!But to our Hero—Pug, the Swell,Has done the flats at Epsom well;And as you see, in tip-toe twig,Now sports his lady and his gig;No guardian Mentor now is nearTo breathe sage counsel in his ear;For when a Lady's in the caseEach Mentor's presence must give place.In truth he needs no aid of friendTo prompt him now his gains to spend.
Where are the Dashers of the LandWho throng'd the Race Course "four-in-hand?"The splendid trappings—bang-up team—Have all departed like a dream,And Britzska, Landau, One-horse Shay,Are now the order of the day.See theEilwagenskims along,The wonder of a gazing throng,Who hail the Royal importation,A luxury to a lazy nation!—Here on a sofa you may shareSweet converse with a favourite fair,Or snugly when it suits the whim,Sloth may stretch out the lazy limb—The curtains of the carriage close,And sink delighted to repose—For such enjoyment thanks are due,O, Princely Cumberland! to you.Long may you rest your noble headOn this transcendent Carriage-bed!But to our Hero—Pug, the Swell,Has done the flats at Epsom well;And as you see, in tip-toe twig,Now sports his lady and his gig;No guardian Mentor now is nearTo breathe sage counsel in his ear;For when a Lady's in the caseEach Mentor's presence must give place.In truth he needs no aid of friendTo prompt him now his gains to spend.
Where are the Dashers of the Land
Who throng'd the Race Course "four-in-hand?"
The splendid trappings—bang-up team—
Have all departed like a dream,
And Britzska, Landau, One-horse Shay,
Are now the order of the day.
See theEilwagenskims along,
The wonder of a gazing throng,
Who hail the Royal importation,
A luxury to a lazy nation!—
Here on a sofa you may share
Sweet converse with a favourite fair,
Or snugly when it suits the whim,
Sloth may stretch out the lazy limb—
The curtains of the carriage close,
And sink delighted to repose—
For such enjoyment thanks are due,
O, Princely Cumberland! to you.
Long may you rest your noble head
On this transcendent Carriage-bed!
But to our Hero—Pug, the Swell,
Has done the flats at Epsom well;
And as you see, in tip-toe twig,
Now sports his lady and his gig;
No guardian Mentor now is near
To breathe sage counsel in his ear;
For when a Lady's in the case
Each Mentor's presence must give place.
In truth he needs no aid of friend
To prompt him now his gains to spend.
GALLERY OF COMICALITIES—No. CXLI.
THE GAMBLER'S PROGRESS—STEP THE SEVENTH.
Step the Seventh.
Ah Pug! tho' fortune now has smil'd,And mark'd you for a favourite child,Too many, by those smiles betray'd;Have prov'd her but a fickle jade;And like the meteor of the night,Misleading with a treacherous light.Irksome the task to trace in verseThe Gamester's course from bad to worse:That course of vice may long endure,But still the termination's sure.What is the upshot of the game?Ruin—remorse—disgrace—and shame.Behold our Hero—mark him well,The inmate of a modern Hell;Where Croupier every snare hath set,To catch all fish that come to net;Tho' of the tribes that sink or swim,TheGoldandSilverFish for him.Now Pug, call Fortune to your aid,The colour's black—the Game is made;Trente-un—Red wins—a hardish smack!You laid that hundred, Pug, on black;Don't let that trifle give you trouble,Try Black once more, and put down double.Red wins again—Ah sound of dread!Well now you'll have a run on Red;Then change the colour if you will—But doom'd to be unlucky still,You'll persevere with store diminish'd,TillYOUR OWN GAMEat length is finish'd;
Ah Pug! tho' fortune now has smil'd,And mark'd you for a favourite child,Too many, by those smiles betray'd;Have prov'd her but a fickle jade;And like the meteor of the night,Misleading with a treacherous light.Irksome the task to trace in verseThe Gamester's course from bad to worse:That course of vice may long endure,But still the termination's sure.What is the upshot of the game?Ruin—remorse—disgrace—and shame.Behold our Hero—mark him well,The inmate of a modern Hell;Where Croupier every snare hath set,To catch all fish that come to net;Tho' of the tribes that sink or swim,TheGoldandSilverFish for him.Now Pug, call Fortune to your aid,The colour's black—the Game is made;Trente-un—Red wins—a hardish smack!You laid that hundred, Pug, on black;Don't let that trifle give you trouble,Try Black once more, and put down double.Red wins again—Ah sound of dread!Well now you'll have a run on Red;Then change the colour if you will—But doom'd to be unlucky still,You'll persevere with store diminish'd,TillYOUR OWN GAMEat length is finish'd;
Ah Pug! tho' fortune now has smil'd,
And mark'd you for a favourite child,
Too many, by those smiles betray'd;
Have prov'd her but a fickle jade;
And like the meteor of the night,
Misleading with a treacherous light.
Irksome the task to trace in verse
The Gamester's course from bad to worse:
That course of vice may long endure,
But still the termination's sure.
What is the upshot of the game?
Ruin—remorse—disgrace—and shame.
Behold our Hero—mark him well,
The inmate of a modern Hell;
Where Croupier every snare hath set,
To catch all fish that come to net;
Tho' of the tribes that sink or swim,
TheGoldandSilverFish for him.
Now Pug, call Fortune to your aid,
The colour's black—the Game is made;
Trente-un—Red wins—a hardish smack!
You laid that hundred, Pug, on black;
Don't let that trifle give you trouble,
Try Black once more, and put down double.
Red wins again—Ah sound of dread!
Well now you'll have a run on Red;
Then change the colour if you will—
But doom'd to be unlucky still,
You'll persevere with store diminish'd,
TillYOUR OWN GAMEat length is finish'd;
GALLERY OF COMICALITIES—No. CXLII.
THE GAMBLER'S PROGRESS—STEP THE EIGHTH.
Step the Eighth.
'Tis even so—the die is cast,And, Pug! your golden dreams have pass'd—Well may you mourn the luckless hourYou plac'd yourself in Mentor's power—The knowing practices he taught you;To a bad winding-up have brought you,Stripp'd of your gains, you now, too late,Distracted, curse your bitter fate,And gnash your teeth, and grasp your hair,In all the raving of despair.How shall such anguish be appeas'd?How can we heal a mind diseas'd?Is there no source of comfort? None.No friend to soothe your mind? Not one.Mentor, of course, has little claimTo be distinguished by the name;Who with unruffled phyz is viewingHis pupil's rage and utter ruin;Eyes him with self-complacent shrug,And thus addresses hapless Pug:—"This is a devilish fine cigar—Why, what a shocking judge you are!I never knew you play so bad—I thought you were notTO BE HAD;'Tis strange, indeed, it never struck ye,When you play high, you're never lucky.Besides, you play'd too long on Red;Didn't you see me shake my head?The money was your own, no doubt,And handsomely they've cleaned you out."
'Tis even so—the die is cast,And, Pug! your golden dreams have pass'd—Well may you mourn the luckless hourYou plac'd yourself in Mentor's power—The knowing practices he taught you;To a bad winding-up have brought you,Stripp'd of your gains, you now, too late,Distracted, curse your bitter fate,And gnash your teeth, and grasp your hair,In all the raving of despair.How shall such anguish be appeas'd?How can we heal a mind diseas'd?Is there no source of comfort? None.No friend to soothe your mind? Not one.Mentor, of course, has little claimTo be distinguished by the name;Who with unruffled phyz is viewingHis pupil's rage and utter ruin;Eyes him with self-complacent shrug,And thus addresses hapless Pug:—"This is a devilish fine cigar—Why, what a shocking judge you are!I never knew you play so bad—I thought you were notTO BE HAD;'Tis strange, indeed, it never struck ye,When you play high, you're never lucky.Besides, you play'd too long on Red;Didn't you see me shake my head?The money was your own, no doubt,And handsomely they've cleaned you out."
'Tis even so—the die is cast,
And, Pug! your golden dreams have pass'd—
Well may you mourn the luckless hour
You plac'd yourself in Mentor's power—
The knowing practices he taught you;
To a bad winding-up have brought you,
Stripp'd of your gains, you now, too late,
Distracted, curse your bitter fate,
And gnash your teeth, and grasp your hair,
In all the raving of despair.
How shall such anguish be appeas'd?
How can we heal a mind diseas'd?
Is there no source of comfort? None.
No friend to soothe your mind? Not one.
Mentor, of course, has little claim
To be distinguished by the name;
Who with unruffled phyz is viewing
His pupil's rage and utter ruin;
Eyes him with self-complacent shrug,
And thus addresses hapless Pug:—
"This is a devilish fine cigar—
Why, what a shocking judge you are!
I never knew you play so bad—
I thought you were notTO BE HAD;
'Tis strange, indeed, it never struck ye,
When you play high, you're never lucky.
Besides, you play'd too long on Red;
Didn't you see me shake my head?
The money was your own, no doubt,
And handsomely they've cleaned you out."
GALLERY OF COMICALITIES—No. CXLIII.
THE GAMBLER'S PROGRESS—STEP THE NINTH.
Step the Ninth.
"Last scene of all,"That ends this strange eventful story."
"Last scene of all,"That ends this strange eventful story."
"Last scene of all,
"That ends this strange eventful story."
The Gaming Race at length is runAnd darkness shrouds the evening sun;Reproach, Remorse, are now in vain—That sun may never rise again!Now poverty, distress, disgrace,Stare ghastly in the victim's face:The heartless shrug, the cut direct,And bitter scorn and cold neglect?—Those glittering hopes so fondly cherished,In one ill-omen'd night have perish'd.And Fate, in midnight's deepest gloom,Have veil'd our wretched Hero's doom—While Suicide is hovering near,To put her seal on Pug's career.—Stay thy rash hand! ere to that hourFrom which no Traveller can return.All stain'd with sin, unfit to die,Unsummon'd you presume to fly!—The tube is rais'd, the die is cast—Another moment is the last.But, ere the awful scene is clos'd,A guardian hand hath interpos'd;And in this time of utmost need,See Mentor rush to stay the deed,And eagerly his arm extendTo snatch from death his wretched friend,Mentor, this act shall well atoneFor many an error of thine own.
The Gaming Race at length is runAnd darkness shrouds the evening sun;Reproach, Remorse, are now in vain—That sun may never rise again!Now poverty, distress, disgrace,Stare ghastly in the victim's face:The heartless shrug, the cut direct,And bitter scorn and cold neglect?—Those glittering hopes so fondly cherished,In one ill-omen'd night have perish'd.And Fate, in midnight's deepest gloom,Have veil'd our wretched Hero's doom—While Suicide is hovering near,To put her seal on Pug's career.—Stay thy rash hand! ere to that hourFrom which no Traveller can return.All stain'd with sin, unfit to die,Unsummon'd you presume to fly!—The tube is rais'd, the die is cast—Another moment is the last.But, ere the awful scene is clos'd,A guardian hand hath interpos'd;And in this time of utmost need,See Mentor rush to stay the deed,And eagerly his arm extendTo snatch from death his wretched friend,Mentor, this act shall well atoneFor many an error of thine own.
The Gaming Race at length is run
And darkness shrouds the evening sun;
Reproach, Remorse, are now in vain—
That sun may never rise again!
Now poverty, distress, disgrace,
Stare ghastly in the victim's face:
The heartless shrug, the cut direct,
And bitter scorn and cold neglect?—
Those glittering hopes so fondly cherished,
In one ill-omen'd night have perish'd.
And Fate, in midnight's deepest gloom,
Have veil'd our wretched Hero's doom—
While Suicide is hovering near,
To put her seal on Pug's career.—
Stay thy rash hand! ere to that hour
From which no Traveller can return.
All stain'd with sin, unfit to die,
Unsummon'd you presume to fly!—
The tube is rais'd, the die is cast—
Another moment is the last.
But, ere the awful scene is clos'd,
A guardian hand hath interpos'd;
And in this time of utmost need,
See Mentor rush to stay the deed,
And eagerly his arm extend
To snatch from death his wretched friend,
Mentor, this act shall well atone
For many an error of thine own.
London, E.A. Beckett, Printer.
LONDON:—E. A. BECKETT,PRINTER,111 & 113,KINGSLAND ROAD.
Works by Mr. CHARLES HINDLEY,TO BE HAD OFMessrs. Reeves and Turner,196, Strand, London, W.C.,AND OFCharles Hindley, the Younger.41, Booksellers' Row, St. Clement Danes,Strand, London, W.C.THE OLD BOOK COLLECTORS MISCELLANY;or, a Collection of Readable Reprints of Literary Rarities. 3 vols. £1 11s. 6d.SELECTION OF THE WORKS OF JOHN TAYLOR,The Water Poet. £1 1s. 0d.THE ROXBURGHE BALLADS.2 vols. £1 5s. 0d.CURIOSITIES OF STREET LITERATURE:comprising "Cocks" or "Catch-pennies." A large and curious assortment of Street-Drolleries, Squibs, Comic Tales, Dying-Speeches, and Confessions, etc., etc. £1 1s. 0d.LIFE AND TIMES OF JAMES CATNACH,late ofthe Seven Dials, Ballad Monger. Cuts by Bewick and others. 12s. 6d.A HISTORY OF THE CRIES OF LONDON.Ancient and Modern: containing over three hundred woodcuts, of which seventy are by Bewick. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. Postage 6d.THE HISTORY OF THE CATNACH PRESS.At Berwick-upon-Tweed, Alnwick, and Newcastle upon-Tyne, in Northumberland; and Seven Dials, London. Cuts by Bewick, etc. Crown 8vo. 6s. Postage 6d.
Works by Mr. CHARLES HINDLEY,TO BE HAD OFMessrs. Reeves and Turner,196, Strand, London, W.C.,AND OFCharles Hindley, the Younger.41, Booksellers' Row, St. Clement Danes,Strand, London, W.C.
THE OLD BOOK COLLECTORS MISCELLANY;or, a Collection of Readable Reprints of Literary Rarities. 3 vols. £1 11s. 6d.
SELECTION OF THE WORKS OF JOHN TAYLOR,The Water Poet. £1 1s. 0d.
THE ROXBURGHE BALLADS.2 vols. £1 5s. 0d.
CURIOSITIES OF STREET LITERATURE:comprising "Cocks" or "Catch-pennies." A large and curious assortment of Street-Drolleries, Squibs, Comic Tales, Dying-Speeches, and Confessions, etc., etc. £1 1s. 0d.
LIFE AND TIMES OF JAMES CATNACH,late ofthe Seven Dials, Ballad Monger. Cuts by Bewick and others. 12s. 6d.
A HISTORY OF THE CRIES OF LONDON.Ancient and Modern: containing over three hundred woodcuts, of which seventy are by Bewick. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. Postage 6d.
THE HISTORY OF THE CATNACH PRESS.At Berwick-upon-Tweed, Alnwick, and Newcastle upon-Tyne, in Northumberland; and Seven Dials, London. Cuts by Bewick, etc. Crown 8vo. 6s. Postage 6d.
Transcriber's Note:Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.Original spelling and its variations were not standardized.
Transcriber's Note: