Oh a pistol, or a knife!
For I’m weary of my life,—
My cup has nothing sweet left to flavour it;
My estate is out at nurse,
And my heart is like my purse—
And all through backing of the Favourite!
At dear O’Neil’s first start,
I sported all my heart,—
Oh, Becher, he never marr’d a braver hit!
For he cross’d her in her race,
And made her lose her place,
And there was an end of that Favourite!
Anon, to mend my chance,
For the Goddess of the Dance
I pin’d and told my enslaver it;
But she wedded in a canter,
And made me a Levanter,
In foreign lands to sigh for the Favourite!
Then next Miss M. A. Tree
I adored, so sweetly she
Could warble like a nightingale and quaver it;
But she left that course of life
To be Mr. Bradshaw’s wife,
And all the world lost on the Favourite!
But out of sorrow’s surf
Soon I leap’d upon the turf,
Where fortune loves to wanton it and waver it;
But standing on the pet,
“Oh my bonny, bonny Bet!”
Black and yellow pull’d short up with the Favourite!
Thus flung by all the crack,
I resolved to cut the pack,—
The second-raters seem’d then a safer hit!
So I laid my little odds
Against Memnon! Oh, ye Gods!
Am I always to be floored by the Favourite!