Whether ‘up stairs’ or ‘down,’ you kick up a rig,
And at intervals pause, your blue ruin to swig,
Or with grub your bread-basket to cram;
Or whether, for quiet, you’re placed all alone,
In some charming retired little heaven of your own,
Where the turf is elastic—in short, just the thing
That Bill Gibbons would choose when he’s forming a ring;
That, whenever you wander, you still may turn to,
And thrash, and be thrashed, till you’re black and blue;
Where your favourite enjoyments for ever are near,