Southerly Busters. Gibson George Herbert

      I brought thee a gun, and a pistol,

      And borrowed a couple of pound,

      Then exit, and cheerfully whistle

      In time to my heart's happy bound.

      I thought thee a regular "trimmer,"

      I thought thee a generous man;

      I drank to thy health in a brimmer,

      And pretty nigh emptied the can.

      I went with a mob "to do evil,"

      I laughed, and I danced, and I sang;

      Bid sorrow fly off to the Devil,

      And care and depression go hang.

      I looked on the vintage that's ruby,

      I "looked on the wine" that "is red,"

      But 'twasn't mere looking o'erthrew me,

      Or made it get into my head.

      In spite of the Israelite's warning,

      In spite of what Solomon said,

      You may look from the dusk to the dawning,

      And still toddle sober to bed.

      Away with such hollow pretences!

      It wasn't from watching the cup

      I lost the control of my senses,

      Or, falling, I couldn't get up.

      Destruction again was before me,

      And empty once more was my purse,

      But thoughts of mine uncle came o'er me,

      And withered my half-uttered curse.

      I thought that the mines of Australia

      I'd found in the meanest of men,

      And, smoking a fearful "regalia,"

      I sought thine iniquitous den.

      My walk, though a little unsteady,

      Was dignity tempered with grace;

      I playfully asked for the "ready,"

      And smiled in thy villainous face.

      I brought thee my best Sunday beaver,

      And gorgeous habiliments new;

      My watch – such a fine English lever! —

      I left, unbeliever, with you.

      I brought thee a coat – such a vestment!

      'Twas newly constructed by Poole;

      I've found it a losing investment—

      Oh! how could I be such a fool?

      I told thee I hadn't a "stiver;"

      I said I'd been "cutting it fat,"

      And coolly demanded a "fiver," —

      How thou must have chuckled at that!

      Thou wee can'st remember the morning

      Succeeding thy Sabbath, thou Jew!

      When cursing the year I was born in,

      I felt the first turn of the screw.

      And, hope from my bosom departing,

      Like dew from the rays of the sun,

      My wits the sad news were imparting

      How I'd been deluded and done.

      And, borne on the telegraph wire,

      A message came swiftly to me;

      It said that my grey-headed sire

      Was pining his offspring to see.

      How face my infuriate father —

      My property mortgaged and gone?

      For darkly his anger will gather;

      I've hardly a rag to put on.

      Thine int'rest I cannot repay thee,

      And gone are my coat and my hat;

      Thou hast all my duds – I could slay thee!

      Oh! how could I be such a flat?

      I brought thee each gift of my mother,

      Each gift of my generous aunt;

      The pistol belonged to my brother —

      I'd like to restore it, but can't:

      For, uncle, thy fingers are sticky,

      And, if the sad truth be confessed,

      Thy heart is as false as the "dicky,"

      Which covers my sorrowful breast.

      I've managed the needful to borrow,

      My watch and my ring to redeem;

      I hope that the sight of my sorrow

      May cause thee a horrible dream.

      'Twere joy should I hear that the pistol

      Had burst in thy villainous hand —

      While smoking the "bird's eye" of Bristol,

      My breast would dilate and expand.

      I leave thee, for vain is resistance,

      And little thou heedest my slang,

      But I'd barter ten years of existence

      For power to cause thee a pang.

      O! had I the wand of a wizard,

      A Nemesis cruel I'd bribe

      To torture that Israelite's gizzard,

      And caution the rest of his tribe.

      O! ye who are fond of excitement,

      Ye students of Med'cine and Law,

      Be warned by this awful indictment,

      And never give Moses your paw!

      From Moses who spoiled the Egyptian,

      To Moses who buys your old clo',

      They're all of the self-same description —

      They take, but they never let go.

      Ye sons of the Man on the Barrel

      (That's Bacchus) – ye "Monks of the Screw!"

      Don't mortgage your wearing apparel,

      Or have any truck with a Jew;

      But take to cold water and virtue,

      And never, whatever befalls,

      Let any false logic convert you

      To visit the "Three Golden Balls."