I
Spring's the boy for a Moulsey-Hurst rig, my lads,
Shaking a flipper, and milling a pate;
Fibbing a nob is most excellent gig, my lads,
Kneading the dough is a turn-out in state.
Tapping the claret to him is delighting,
Belly-go-firsters and clicks of the gob;
For where are such joys to be found as in fighting,
And measuring mugs for a chancery job:
With flipping and milling, and fobbing and nobbing,
With belly-go-firsters and kneading the dough,
With tapping of claret, and clipping and gobbing,
Say just what you please, you must own he's the go.