So all sing and say, by night and by day,
In the boudoir, the street, at the concert, and play,
In a sort of coxcombical roundelay.
You may roam through the City, transversely or straight,
From Whitechapel turnpike to Cumberland Gate,
And every young lady who thrums a guitar,
Every mustachioed shopman who smokes a cigar,
With affected devotion, promulgates his notion,
Of being a “Rover” and “Child of the Ocean”—
Whate’er their age, sex, or condition may be,