He from the world had cut off a great man Who in his time had made heroic bustle.

Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, Booze in the ken, or in the spellken hustle?

Who queer a flat? Who (spite of Bow Street's ban) On the high-toby-splice so flash the muzzle?

Who on a lark, with Black-eyed Sal (his blowing) So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing?

In a note Byron says, "The advance of science and of language has rendered it unnecessary to translate the above good and true English, spoken in its original purity by the select mobility and their patrons. The following is the stanza of a song which was very popular, at least in my early days:--"

("If there be any German so ignorant as to require a traduction, I refer him to my old friend and corporeal pastor and master John Jackson, Esq., Professor of Pugilism.")

On the high toby splice flash the muzzle In spite of each gallows old scout; If you at the spellken can't hustle You'll be hobbled in making a clout.

Then your blowing will wax gallows haughty, When she hears of your scaly mistake She'll surely turn snitch for the forty-- That her Jack may be regular weight.

John Jackson, to whom is attributed the slang song of which the foregoing stanza is a fragment was the son of a London builder. He was born in London on 28 Sept. 1769, and though he fought but thrice, was champion of England from 1795 to 1803, when he retired, and was succeeded by Belcher. After leaving the prize-ring, Jackson established a school at No. 13 Bond Street, where he gave instructions in the art of self-defence, and was largely patronised by the n.o.bility of the day. At the coronation of George IV he was employed, with eighteen other prize-fighters dressed as pages, to guard the entrance to Westminster Abbey and Hall. He seems, according to the inscription on a mezzotint engraving by C. Turner, to have subsequently been landlord of the Sun and Punchbowl, Holborn, and of the c.o.c.k at b.u.t.ton.

He died on 7 Oct. 1845 at No. 4 Lower Grosvenor Street West, London, in his seventy-seventh year, and was buried in Brompton Cemetery, where a colossal monument was erected by subscription to his memory.

Byron, who was one of his pupils, had a great regard for him, and often walked and drove with him in public. It is related that, while the poet was at Cambridge, his tutor remonstrated with him on being seen in company so much beneath his rank, and that he replied that "Jackson's manners were infinitely superior to those of the fellows of the college whom I meet at 'the high table'" (J. W. Clark, Cambridge, 1890, p. 140). He twice alludes to his 'old friend and corporeal pastor and master' in his notes to his poems (Byron, _Poetical Works_, 1885-6, ii. 144, vi. 427), as well as in his 'Hints from Horace' (ib. i. 503):

And men unpractised in exchanging knocks Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box.

Moore, who accompanied Jackson to a prize-fight in December 1818, notes in his diary that Jackson's house was 'a very neat establishment for a boxer', and that the respect paid to him everywhere was 'highly comical' (_Memoirs_, ii. 233). A portrait of Jackson, from an original painting then in the possession of Sir Henry Smythe, bart., will be found in the first volume of Miles's 'Pugilistica' (opp. p.

89). There are two mezzotint engravings by C. Turner.

II.

IN Boucicault's _Janet Pride_ (revival by Charles Warner at the Adelphi Theatre, London in the early eighties) was sung the following (here given from memory):

The Convict's Song.

THE FAREWELL.

Farewell to old England the beautiful!

Farewell to my old pals as well!

Farewell to the famous Old Ba-i-ly (_Whistle_).

Where I used for to cut sich a swell, Ri-chooral, ri-chooral, Oh!!!

THE [WERDHICK?]

These seving long years I've been serving, And seving I've got for to stay, All for bashin' a bloke down our a-alley, (_Whistle_).

And a' takin' his huxters away!

THE COMPLAINT.

There's the Captain, wot is our Commanduer, There's the Bosun and all the ship's crew, There's the married as well as the single 'uns, (_Whistle_).

Knows wot we pore convicks goes through.

THE [SUFFERING?]

It ain't' cos they don't give us grub enough, It ain't' cos they don't give us clo'es: It's a-cos all we light-fingred gentery (_Whistle_).

Goes about with a log on our toes.

THE PRAYER.

Oh, had I the wings of a turtle-dove, Across the broad ocean I'd fly, Right into the arms of my Policy love (_Whistle_).

And on her soft bosum I'd lie!

THE MORRELL.

Now, all you young wi-counts and d.u.c.h.esses, Take warning by wot I've to say, And mind all your own wot you touches is, (_Whistle_).

Or you'll jine us in Botinny Bay!

Oh!!!

Ri-chooral, ri-chooral, ri-addiday, Ri-chooral, ri-chooral, iday.