  squiggle-line Each pot of ale (who'd ever think it, Except yourself the while you drink it? And thinking so, drink all the faster) Tells for the credit of your Master. I'm speaking now, as on a journey You act by way of his attorney; Through whom smith, saddler,—half the county Participate his worship's bounty. You are the herald of his worth, His vast estates, 'amazing birth!' You've but one way to show your sense, While unrestricted for expense, So ev'ry art and method try To make his honour's money fly. Your duty 'tis, beyond a doubt, To turn the inn quite inside out; Give cooks and ostlers full commission, Put each man Jack in requisition, THE GROOM. Although you hav'n't time to deal With aught that can be call'd a meal. Be sure, at every town you stop at, To choose those inns to take a drop at, Where you're respected all the more From having made a splash before; Where all your pranks they understand, And pay their homage cap in hand; Furnish your wines from the best bins, And outdo all the other inns. So cleverly to think you've got 'em, Your Master's purse can have no bottom! If, when applying for a place, Your Master asks you, to your face, If you be sober, and the rest, Or somewhat giv'n to Hodges' best? Confess you're fond of drinking courses, But "nothing bangs your love of horses." Thus he'll admire your candid way, And trust to all you do and say. Not that you'll do the like by him, The only plan to bring you pelf, Is buying hay and oats yourself; Because you know a way so handy, To turn them into ale and brandy. Further I'll not attempt to mix Myself at all with jockeys' tricks; Or run a race with such as you, Who'll take my hints, and beat me too! For once, then, I'll hold in the reins, Not to be jostled for my pains: The 'burning turf' but brings remorse, And fairly warns me off the course. So rest, and finger still the 'cole,' Groom of the crib!—groom of the stole! THE COACHMAN.
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