Note 12 — Chapter II

Time was, when John Bull little difference spied, 'Twixt the foe at his feet, and the friend at his side; When he found (such his humour in fighting and eating), His foe, like his beefsteak, the better for beating! But this comes, Master Ben, of your curst foreign notions, Your trinkets, wigs, thingambobs, gold lace, and lotions; Your Noyeau's Curacoa's, and the Devil knows what— (One swig of Blue Ruin is worth the whole lot.) Your great and small crosses (my eyes! what a brood!) A cross buttock from me would do some of 'em good— Which have spoil'd you, till hardly a drop, my old porpus, Of pure English claret is left in your corpus. And (as Jim says) the only one trick, good or bad, Of the Fancy, you're up to, is fibbing, my lad! Hence it comes, Boxiana, disgrace to thy page!— Having floor'd, by good luck, the first Swell of the Age, Having conquer'd the prime one that mill'd us all round, You kick'd him, old Ben, as he gasp'd on the ground!— Aye—just at the time to show spunk, if you'd any, Kick'd him, and jaw'd, and lag'd[12] him to Botany!