SOME folks may boast of sense, egad,
Vot holds a lofty station;
But though a dustman, I have had
A lib'ral hedication.
And though I never vent to school,
Like many of my betters,
A turnpike man, vot varn't no fool,
He larnt me all my letters.
They calls me Adam Bell, 'tis clear,
As Adam vos the fust man,
And by a co-in-side-ance queer,
Vy, I'm the fust of dustmen,
Vy, I'm the fust of dustmen!
At sartin schools they make boys write
Their alphabet on sand, sirs;
So I thought dust vould do as vell,
And larnt it out of hand, sirs;
Took in the Penny Magazine,
And Johnson's Dixionary,
And all the other peri-o-di-cals,
To make me literary.
My dawning genus fust did peep
Near Battle-bridge, 'tis plain, sirs,
You recollect the cinder heap
Vot stood in Gray's Inn Lane, sirs?
"Twas there I studied pic-turesque,
Vhile I my bread was yearnin;
And there inhalin' the fresh breeze,
I sifted out my larnin!
Then Mrs. Bell, 'twixt you and I,
Vould melt a heart of stone, sirs,
To hear her pussey's wittals cry,
In such a barrow tone, sirs.
My darters all take arter her,
In grace and figure easy;
They larns to sing, and as they're fat,
I has 'em taught by Grisi!
Ve dines at four, and arter that
I smokes a mild Awanna,
Or gives a lesson to the lad
Upon the grand pianna.
Or vith the gals valk a quodrille,
Or takes a cup of cof-ee;
Or if I feels fatig'd or ill,
I lounges on the sophy!
Or arter dinner read a page.
Of Valter Scott or Byron---
Or Mr. Shikspur, on the stage,
Subjects none can tire on.
At night ve toddles to the play,
But not to gallery attic,
Drury Lane's the time o' day,
And quite aristocratic.
I means to buy my eldest son
A commission in the Lancers,
And make my darters every one,
Accomplish'd Hopra dancers.
Great sculptors all conwarse wi' me,
And call my taste diwine, sirs;
King George's statty at King's Cross
Was built from my design, sirs!
And ven I'm made a member on,
For that I means to try, sirs;
Mr. Gully fought his vay,
And vherefore shouldn't I, sirs?
Yet vhen I sits in Parli'ment,
In old Sin Stephen's College,
I means to take, 'tis my intent,
The "taxes off o' knowledge."
They calls me Adam Bell, 'tis true,
'Cause Adam was the fust man-
I'm sure it's wery plain to you,
I'm a literary dustman!
NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.
AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to talk o' wark?
Mak haste, set by your wheel!
Is this a time to talk o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Gie me my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck ava;
There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa.
Rise up and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the meikle pot;
Gie little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday's coat:
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been lang awa.
For there's nae luck, &c.
There are twa hens upon the bauk, They've fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare:
And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw;
It's a' for love of my gudeman
For he's been lang awa.
For there's nae luck, &c.
O gie me down my bigonets,
My bishop-satin gown;
For I maun tell the Bailie's wife,
That Colin's come to town:
My Sunday shoon they maun gae on,
My hose o' pearl blue,
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.
For there's nae luck, &c.
Sae true's his word, sae smooth's his speech,
His breath's like caller air,
His very foot has music in't,
When he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought ;
In troth, I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck, &c.
The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thrill'd thro' my heart,
They're a' blawn by, I have him safe,
Till death we'll never part:
But what pits parting in my head;
It may be far awa;
The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.
For there's nae luck, &c.
Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,
I hae na mair to crave;
Could I but live to mak him blest,
I'm blest aboon the lave;
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought;
In troth, I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck, &c.
IN MY COTTAGE NEAR A WOOD.
In my cottage near a wood,
Love and Rosa now are mine;
Rosa, ever fair and good,
Charm me with those smiles of thine
Rosa, partner of my life,
Thee alone my heart shall prize;
Thou the tender friend and wife,
Ah! too swift life's current flies.
Linger yet, ye moments stay,
Why so rapid is your wing?
Whither would ye haste away?
Stay and hear my Rosa sing.
Love and you still bless my cot,
Fortune's frowns are for our good;
May we live by pride forgot,
In our cottage near a wood.
SUCH A GENIUS I DID GROW.
WHEN a very little boy,
They sent me first to school,
My master said, though least of all
I was the biggest fool.
Such a genius I did grow.
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