Who can slat the King’s English, I swear by
old Ben!
And you’ll never appreciate half of my praise
Till you’ve stood there yourself in the beller
and blaze
Of his thirteen-inch barker, and fust thing you
know
Discover you’ve bought an old bone yard or so,
I hardly expect, O ye hurrying throng,
Ye’ll bow to my hero, applaud my rude song,