Good sport it is to you,

To grind the honest pore;

To pay their just or unjust debts

With eight hundred per cent. for Lor;
Make haste and git your costes in,

They will not last much mor!

Come down from that tribewn,
Thou Shameless and Unjust;
Thou Swindle, picking pockets in
The name of Truth, august;
Come down, thou hoary Blasphemy,
For die thou shalt and must.

And go it, Jacob Homnium,
And ply your iron pen,
And rise up Sir John Jervis,
And shut me up that den;
That sty for fattening lawyers in,

On the bones of honest men.

PLEACEMAN X

THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

AN igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek

I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak,

Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see,

Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin' of she.

This Mary was pore and in misery once,

And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce;

She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea,

And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks
(Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax),
She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be,
Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.

"Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill;

Will you jest step to the doctor's for to fetch me a pill ?"
"That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she:
And she goes off to the doctor's as quickly as may be.

No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped,
Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed;
She hopens all the trunks without never a key-
She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.

Mrs. Roney's best linning gownds, petticoats, and close,

Her children's little coats and things, her boots and her hose,
She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee.
Mrs. Roney's situation-you may think vat it vould be!

Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay,
Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day,
Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see?
But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.

She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man;
They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand;
And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he,

And the parson was ready, and a waitin' for his fee.

When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown,
Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground.
She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me;

I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.

Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go,

I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know,

But the marriage bell is a ringin, and the ring you may see,
And this young man is a waitin, says Mary, says she.

I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark,

And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark.
Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me.
And I think this young man is lucky to be free.

So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary's cheek,

I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak;

That exlent justice demanded her plea-
But never a sullable said Mary said she.

On account of her conduck so base and so vile,
That wicked young gurl is committed for trile,
And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea,
It's a proper reward for such willians as she.

Now, you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep,
From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep,
Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek
To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak.

PLEACEMAN X.

THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS.

W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

GALLIANT gents and lovely ladies,

List a tail vich late befel,
Vich I heard it, bein on duty,

At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell.

Praps you know the Fondling Chapel,
Vere the little children sings:
(Lor! I likes to hear on Sundies
Them there pooty little things!)

In this street there lived a housemaid,
If you particklarly ask me where—
Vy, it was at four-and-tventy,

Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square.

Vich her name was Eliza Davis,

And she went to fetch the beer:

In the street she met a party

As was quite surprized to see her.

Vich he vas a British Sailor,
For to judge him by his look:
Tarry jacket, canvas trowsies,
Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke.

Presently this Mann accostes

Of this hinnocent young gal—
Pray, saysee, Excuse my freedom,
You're so like my Sister Sal!

You're so like my Sister Sally,
Both in valk and face and size;
Miss, that-dang my old lee scuppers,
It brings tears into my hyes!

I'm a mate on board a wessel,
I'm a sailor bold and true;
Shiver up my poor old timbers,
Let me be a mate for you!

What's your name, my beauty, tell me?
And she faintly hansers, "Lore,
Sir, my name 's Eliza Davis,

And I live at tventy-four."

Hofttimes came this British seaman,
This deluded gal to meet:
And at tventy-four was welcome,
Tventy-four in Guilford Street.

And Eliza told her Master

(Kinder they than Missuses are), How in marridge he had ast her, Like a galliant Brittish Tar.

And he brought his landlady vith him
(Vich vas all his hartful plan),
And she told how Charley Thompson
Reely was a good young man.

And how she herself had lived in
Many years of union sweet,
Vith a gent she met promiskous,
Valkin in the public street.

And Eliza listened to them,

And she thought that soon their bands

Vould be published at the Fondlin,
Hand the clergyman jine their ands.

And he ast about the lodgers

(Vich her master let some rooms), Likevise vere they kep their things, and Vere her master kep his spoons.

Hand this vicked Charley Thompson
Came on Sundy veek to see her,
And he sent Eliza Davis

Hout to vetch a pint of beer.

Hand while poor Eliza vent to
Fetch the beer, dewoid of sin,
This etrocious Charley Thompson
Let his wile accomplish hin.

To the lodgers, their apartments,
This abandingd female goes,
Prigs their shirts and umberellas :

Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes.

Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson,
Lest his wictim should escape,
Hocust her vith rum and vater,
Like a fiend in huming shape.

But a hi was fixt upon 'em

Vich these raskles little sore; Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord Of the house at tventy-four.

He vas valkin in his garden,

Just afore he vent to sup;
And on looking up he sor the
Lodger's vinders lighted hup.

Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled;
Something's going wrong, he said;
And he caught the vicked voman
Underneath the lodger's bed.

And he called a brother Pleaseman,
Vich vas passing on his beat,

Like a true and galliant feller,

Hup and down in Guildford Street.

And that Pleaseman, able-bodied,
Took this voman to the cell;
To the cell vere she was quodded,
In the Close of Clerkenwell.