gers, girls, which av yez owns the child?'"

His humorous rhymes were, however, more often quips and cranks at the
expense of his contemporaries. It was his delight, for instance, to
remind a certain shoemaker, noted alike for display of wealth and for
personal uncleanness, of his inconsiderable origin in a song of which
but the first stanza has come down to us:

"At the dirty end of Dirty Lane,
Liv'd a dirty cobbler, Dick Maclane;
His wife was in the old king's reign
A stout brave orange-woman.
On Essex Bridge she strained her throat,
And six-a-penny was her note.
But Dikey wore a bran-new coat,
He got among the yeomen.
He was a bigot, like his clan,
And in the streets he wildly sang,
O Roly, toly, toly raid, with his old jade."

He had troubles of divers kinds, and numerous interlopers to face and
put down. Once an officious peeler arrested him as a vagabond, but was
triumphantly routed amid the laughter of the court, when Moran
reminded his worship of the precedent set by Homer, who was also, he
declared, a poet, and a blind man, and a beggarman. He had to face a
more serious difficulty as his fame grew. Various imitators started up
upon all sides. A certain actor, for instance, made as many guineas as
Moran did shillings by mimicking his sayings and his songs and his
get-up upon the stage. One night this actor was at supper with some
friends, when a dispute arose as to whether his mimicry was overdone
or not. It was agreed to settle it by an appeal to the mob. A
forty-shilling supper at a famous coffee-house was to be the wager.
The actor took up his station at Essex Bridge, a great haunt of
Moran's, and soon gathered a small crowd. He had scarce got through
"In Egypt's land, contagious to the Nile," when Moran himself came up,
followed by another crowd. The crowds met in great excitement and
laughter. "Good Christians," cried the pretender, "is it possible that
any man would mock the poor dark man like that?"

"Who's that? It's some imposhterer," replied Moran.

"Begone, you wretch! it's you'ze the imposhterer. Don't you fear the
light of heaven being struck from your eyes for mocking the poor dark
man?"

"Saints and angels, is there no protection against this? You're a most
inhuman blaguard to try to deprive me of my honest bread this way,"
replied poor Moran.

"And you, you wretch, won't let me go on with the beautiful poem.
Christian people, in you