Dec. 7.—Peter reported stock—two coats, two pairs of trousers, and five gentlemen in bed. Smith hinted at the “beauties of Burke”—Peter brought a note for Jones—everybody in ecstacy—Jones’s jolly old uncle from Glamorganshire had arrived in town. Huzza! safe for a 20l. Busker (that’s myself) volunteered his suit—Jones dressed and off in a brace of shakes—caught Peter laughing—found it was a hoax of Jones’s to give us the slip—would have stripped Peter, only his clothes were worth nothing—calculated the produce of the remaining suit at—
Buttons . . . . . a
Two sleeves . . . . one pint of porter.
Body . . . . . . . four plates of a-la-mode.
Trousers (at per leg) . half a quartern loaf.
Caught an idea.—wrote an anonymous letter to the landlord, and told him that an association had been formed to burke Colonel Sibthorp—his lodgers the conspirators—that the scheme was called the “Lie-a-bed plot”—poverty with his lodgers all fudge—men of immense wealth—get rid of them for his own sake—old boy very nervous, having been in quod for smuggling—gave us warning—couldn’t go if we would. Landlord redeemed our clothes. Ha! ha!—did him brown.
The above is a statement of what I suffered during my minority. I have now the honour to be a magistrate and a member of Parliament.
* * * * *
THE RICH OLD BUFFER.
A MAIDEN LYRIC.
Urge it no more! I must not wed
One who is poor, so hold your prattle;
My lips on love have ne’er been fed,
With poverty I cannot battle.
My choice is made—I know I’m right—
Who wed for love starvation suffer;
So I will study day and night
To please and win a rich OLD BUFFER.
Romance is very fine, I own;
Reality is vastly better;
I’m twenty—past—romance is flown—
To Cupid I’m no longer debtor.
Wealth, power, and rank—I ask no more—
Let the world frown, with these I’ll rough her—
Give me an equipage and four,
Blood bays, a page, and—rich OLD BUFFER.
An opera-box shall be my court,
Myself the sovereign of the women;
There moustached loungers shall resort,
Whilst Elssler o’er the stage is skimming.
If any rival dare dispute
The palm of ton, my set shall huff her;
I’ll reign supreme, make envy mute,
When once I wed a rich OLD BUFFFER!
feelings”—pshaw! for nought
They go, I grant, though quite enchanting
In valentines by school-girls wrought:
Nonsense! by me they are not wanting.
A note! and, as I live, a ring!
“Pity the sad suspense I suffer!”
All’s right. I knew to book I’d bring
Old Brown. I’ve caught—
A RICH OLD BUFFER.