The women bawl’d—the babbies squall’d,
We book’d ourselves for dead—
Some were hurt, and choked with dirt,
And some pitch’d on their head.
The grub got spoilt, on which
Our hopes did so depend;
And the goosegog pie had all got jamm’d
By Bobby’s latter end. Tol lol, &c.
By the time we’d quite got o’er our fright,
The folks were coming back,—
So we got done out of our fun,
Through the precious lazy hack.
Next time we pleasuring went,
We swore with all our rage,
If we couldn’t get a better horse,
We’d go by the Marrowbone stage. Tol lol, &c.
Tatham: Printed at Charles Clark’s Private Press.