like 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 Dickey 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 getup upon the
stage. One night this actor was at supper with some friends, when
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 coffeehouse 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 your charity won't you beat this man away? he's
taking advantage of my darkness."

The pretender, seeing that he was having the best of it, thanked the
people for their sympathy and protection, and went on with the poem,