Says Shove, “I will, so help me Bob!”
“Fellow,” cried Crow, “you’re drunk with filthy beer!
A drunkard, fellow, is a brute’s next neighbour;—
But Miss Cloghorty’s time was very near,
And, I suppose, Lucretia’s now in labour.”
“Zounds!” bellows Shove, with rage and wonder wild,
“Why then, my maiden Aunt is big with child!”
Here was, at once, a sad discovery made!
Lucretia’s frolick, now, was past a joke;—
Shove tremble’d for his Fortune, Crow, his Trade,