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222 retained any recollection, before he sunk under the table, in company with Long Ned, Scarlet Jem, and Old Bags, was, the bearing his part in the burthen, of what appeared to him a chorus of last dying speeches and confessions, but what, in reality, was a song made in honour of Gentleman George, and sung by his grateful guests as a finale to the festivities. It ran thus—

A tumbler of blue ruin, fill, fill for me! Red tape those as likes it may drain, But whatever the lush, it a bumper must be, If we ne'er drinks a bumper again! Now—now in the crib, where a ruffler may lie, Without fear that the traps should distress him, With a drop in the mouth, and a drop in the eye, Here's to Gentleman George—God bless him! Here's to Gentleman George—God bless him!

'Mong the pals of the Prince, I have heard it's the go, Before they have tippled enough, To smarten their punch with the best curaçoa, More conish to render the stuff! I boast not such lush!—but whoever his glass Does not like—I'll be damn'd if I press him!— Upstanding, my kiddies—round, round let it pass! Here's to Gentleman George—God bless him! Here's to Gentleman George—God bless him!