Then pass round the lush, and cease napping the bib.
T'other night we'd a precious rum squeeze at the Spell,
And, togg'd as a yokel, I used my forks well;
From a Rum-Tom-Pat's kickseys I knapp'd a green twitch,
And nearly got off the gold glims from his snitch.
But a swell with hock-dockeys and silken gam-cases,
Put the parish prig up to the rig of such places;—
So, finding the nib-cove was chanting the play,
I shov'd my trunk nimbly and got clean away.
As a jolly gay-tyke-boy I sometimes appear,