Fashion

      CRIKEY

  WHAT WILL

      MASTER

          SAY?

From a country village t'o day,
I up to Lunnen bent my way,
Expecting that my wit and face
Would get me a very tidy place ;
I walked around, and up and down—
Wur called a gapish country clown,
'Till to a baker I did speak,
Who hired me for a shilling a week.

With heigho, diddlem, riddlem dum,
Fidgety, fadgety, rum ti bum,
Bibbery, bobbery, bum ti bay,
Oh, crikey, what will master say ?

But Very soon I cursed my lot,
For scarcely any grub I got,
And all the boys played tunes with me,
They teazed and plagued me for a spree,
One day while taking home a dish,
Some boys into poor I did pitch ;
They with the meat and pudding fled,
And threw the meat all o'er my head.

I cried not a little bit at that,
And like a devil rolled in fat ;
To get the dish I then did try,
But got instead a stinking eye !
When I went home and told the spree,
Lor did not master larrup me !
They lock'd me up and made me pay,
With not no wittals all that day.

Next morning you may think of course,
I was as hungry as a horse—
So, 'stead of cleaning master's shoes,
I thought a chance I wouldn't lose,
I'm sure, you'll admire my wit—
I ate the blacking every bit !
Then took vhile every one did scoff,
A pint of salts to vork it off.

One day my master, with a smile,
Sent me to buy some stirrup oil,
So off to fetch it then went I,
Into a cobbler's stall hard by ;
Here, said the snob, it is my chap—
So down he reached a leather strap,
And tanned me up and down the stall,
'Till I could scarcely stand at all.

There's Peggy too my master's cook,
At me she does so vicked look,
I does all her vork so kind and free,
Because I'm certain she loves me ;
My master often valks her out,
And lately she has got quite stout,
She's going to have a child, 'tis true,
And she says that I must father it too.

So tell me, pray, what shall I do ?
The life I lead makes me look blue ;
I've saved a pound upon my life,
And I really think I'll take wife !
Now is there any lady here ?
Who to wed me will not fear !
Come smile, consent, and name the day,
Then, crikey, there's a lark they'll say !
With my heigho, &c.

[NLS note: a graphic appears here - see image of page]

        I'M QUITE

              THE

      LADIES' MAN.

J. Harkness, Printer, Church-Street, Preston.

I am a ladies' man—in fact,
The belles they all declares—
They never had a beau before,
Who walked so militae.
My whiskers and mustachios too,
Resist their charms who can,
It is their fascinations make
Me quite the ladies' man.

I'm partial to a moonlight walk,
I like a morning ride
With lady Mary Cavendish ;
In all her youth and pride,
I love to lounge in the bazaar,
The trifles there to scan ;
I never visit Crockford's—for,
I'm quite the ladies' man.

'Tis pleasant when the heart is free,
To watch the maiden's smile,
To mark her eyes' bewitching glance,
The youthful heart beguile ;
But I can gaze on beauty bright,
And I'd much rather than
Peru's rich mines were mine to boast,
Be quite the ladies' man.

Once I could live on balmy sighs,
'Twas foolish—I was young,
I spoke the language of the eyes,
But now I've found my tongue ;
I was a simple lover then,
I have now a better plan,
I flatter—swear—write sonnets—and
I'm quite the ladies' man.

                                                227.