The Broken Hearts Club

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The Thieves’ Chaunt
By W. H. smith in The Individual.

There is a nook in the boozing ken,
  Where many a mug I fog, 
And the smoke curls gently, while cousin Ben
Keeps filling the pots again and again,
  If the coves have stump’d their hog.
The liquors around are diamond bright,
  And the diddle is best of all;
But I never in liquors took delight,
For liquors I think is all a bite,
  So for heavy wet I call.
The heavy wet in a pewter quart,
  As brown as a badger’s hue,
More than Bristol milk or gin,
Brandy or rum, I tipple in,
  With my darling blowen, Sue.
Oh! grunting peck in its eating
Is a richly soft and savoury thing;
A Norfolk capon is jolly grub
When you wash it down with strength of bub:
But dearer to me Sue’s kisses far,
Than grunting peck or other grub are,
And I never funks the lambskin men,
When I sits with her in the boozing ken.
Her duds are bob—she’s a kinchin crack,
And I hopes as how she’ll never back;
For she never lushes dog’s-soup or lap,
But she loves my cousin the bluffer’s tap.
She’s wide-awake, and her prating cheat,
For humming a cove was never beat;
But because she lately nimm’d some tin,
They have sent her to lodge at the King’s Head Inn.