rs and claret
Lulled him in oblivion sweet;
And he much preferred a garret,
For his drinking, to the street.

But the moonlight, pale and broken,
Pained at soul the baron's son;
For he knew, by that soft token,
That the larking had begun;--
That the stout and valiant Marquis {97}
Then was leading forth his swells,
Milling some policeman's carcass,
Or purloining private bells.

So he sat in grief and sorrow,
Rather drunk than otherwise,
Till the golden gush of morrow
Dawned once more upon his eyes:
Till the sponging Bailiff's daughter,
Lightly tapping at the door,
Brought his draught of soda-water,
Brandy-bottomed as before.

"Sweet Rebecca! has your father,
Think you, made a deal of brass?"
And she answered--"Sir, I rather
Should imagine that he has."
Uwins then, his whiskers scratching,
Leered upon the maiden's face,
And, her hand with ardour catching,
Folded her in close embrace.

"La, Sir! let alone--you fright me!"
Said the daughter of the Jew:
"Dearest, how those eyes delight me!
Let me love thee, darling, do!"
"Vat is dish?" the Bailiff muttered,
Rushing in with fury wild;
"Ish your muffins so vell buttered,
Dat you darsh insult ma shild?"

"Honourable my intentions,
Good Abednego, I swear!
And I have some small pretensions,
For I am a Baron's heir.
If you'll only clear my credit,
And advance a _thou_ {99} or so,
She's a peeress--I have said it:
Don't you twig, Abednego?"

"Datsh a very different matter,"
Said the Bailiff, with a leer;
"But you musht not cut it fatter
Than ta slish will shtand, ma tear!
If you seeksh ma approbation,
You musht quite give up your rigsh,
Alsho you musht join our nashun,
And renounsh ta flesh of pigsh."

Fast as one of Fagin's pupils,
I. O. Uwins did agree!
Little plagued with holy scruples
From the starting-post was he.
But at times a baleful vision
Rose before his shuddering view,
For he knew that circumcision
Was expected from a Jew.

At a meeting of the Rabbis,
Held about the Whitsuntide,
Was this thorough-paced Barabbas
Wedded to his Hebrew bride:
All his previous debts compounded,
From the sponging-house he came,
And his father's feelings wounded
With reflections on the same.

But the sire his son accosted--
"Split my wig! if any more
Such a double-dyed apostate
Shall presume to cross my door!
Not a penny-piece to save ye
From the kennel or the spout;--
Dinner,