I trust that in Paris you show’d in prime feather,
And that you and old Soult had a bottle together;
I’d like to have seen how you sported your tanners,
And mark the French polish you got on your manners.
But perhaps it is time to leave off, my prime feller,
For I an’t wery much of a writer or speller;
Yourself and your pals of the Fancy arn’t green,
And will doubtless diskiver at once what I mean.
They may call me a fool, and the words won’t affront,
For ’tis sartain they can’t say the same of my blunt;