d Mother Jones, of St. Thomas's Street,
If a jovial companion she chances to meet,
Away to the gin-shop they fly for some max,
And for it they'd pawn the last smock from their backs;

For the juniper berry,
It makes their hearts merry,
With a hey down, down deny,
Geneva's the liquor of life."

By this time they were at the Globe; upon entering which, they were
greeted by Mortimer and Merry well, who had arrived before them; and
dinner being served almost immediately, they were as quickly seated at
the table, to partake of an excellent repast.

1 It is a well-known fact, that a person of the name of
Tiffin announced himself to the world under this very
seductive title, which, doubtless, had the effect of
bringing him considerable custom from the loyal subjects of
his great patron.

LONDON VOL I. Part 2.

CHAPTER XVII

"Here fashion and folly still go hand in hand,
With the Blades of the East, and the Bucks of the Strand;
The Bloods of the Park, and paraders so gay,
Who are lounging in Bond Street the most of the day--
Who are foremost in all that is formed for delight,
At greeking, or wenching, or drinking all night;
For London is circled with unceasing joys:
Then, East, West, North and South, let us hunt them, my boys."

~258~~ THE entrance to the house had attracted Tallyho's admiration as
they proceeded; but the taste and elegance of the Coffee-room, fitted up
with brilliant chandeliers, and presenting amidst a blaze of splendour
every comfort and accommodation for its visitors, struck him with
surprise; in which however he was not suffered to remain long, for
Merrywell and Mortimer had laid their plans with some degree of depth
and determination to carry into execution the proposed ramble of the
evening, and had ordered a private room for the party; besides which,
they had invited a friend to join them, who was introduced to Tom and
Bob, under the title of Frank Harry. Frank Harry was a humorous sort of
fellow, who could tell a tough story, sing a merry song, and was up to
snuff, though he frequently got snuffy, singing,

"The bottle's the Sun of our table,

His beams are rosy wine:
We, planets never are able

Without his beams to shine.
Let mirth