Ye pinks of high rank, let your sorrows have vent,
And join with your pals in a doleful lament.
No longer at midnight, when coming it strong,
Ripe for riot and row, shall we stagger along;
No more of brave acts shall we “gentlemen” chaff,
Nor floor a raw lobster and fracture his staff.
Till lately, when liquor got up in the nob,
A fine of five shillings would settle the job;
And none will deny who has starr’d on the town,
A frolic or spree wasn’t cheap at a crown.