A pal knaps his ticker, or frisks off his flamms.
But the life that I love is in Swell-street to shine,
With a Mounseer-fak'd calp, and my strummel all fine,
Heater-cases well polish'd, and lully so white,
And an upper ben fitting me jaunty and tight.
Then with nice silk rain-napper, or gold-headed dick,
I plunge neck and heels into sweet river-tick;
And if in a box of the stone-jug I get,
Though hobbled for macing, 'twill prove but a debt.
Then lip us a chant, pals! Why thus mum your dubber?