The knowing bench had tipp'd her buzer queer, [8]
For Dick had beat the hoof upon the pad,
Of Field, or Chick-lane--was the boldest lad
That ever mill'd the cly, or roll'd the leer. [9]
And with Nell he kept a lock, to fence, and tuz,
And while his flaming mot was on the lay,
With rolling kiddies, Dick would dive and buz,
And cracking kens concluded ev'ry day; [10]
But fortune fickle, ever on the wheel,
Turn'd up a rubber, for these smarts to feel.

_Triumph._

Both'ring the flats assembled round the quod, [11]
The queerum queerly smear'd with dirty black; [12]
The dolman sounding, while the sheriff's nod,
Prepare the switcher to dead book the whack,
While in a rattle sit two blowens flash, [13]
Salt tears fast streaming from each bungy eye;
To nail the ticker, or to mill the cly [14]
Through thick and thin their busy muzzlers splash,
The mots lament for Tyburn's merry roam,
That bubbl'd prigs must at the New Drop fall, [15]
And from the start the scamps are cropp'd at home;
All in the sheriff's picture frame the call [16]
Exalted high, Dick parted with his flame,
And all his comrades swore that he dy'd game.

[1: penny]
[2: man; woman]