I have cough'd 'neath the bin, and shook all the old port,
Till 'twas muddy as Will B——ck's brains—yet each varlet
Said 'twas as bright as a ruby, and toasting some harlot,
Would then smack his lips, in despite of my labour!
Oh, ye Gods! how I wish'd for a fist and a sabre,
To cut down the hiccupping roist'rers with glee,
That is, if their heads could be injur'd by me.
When Weltje has cook'd for the half famish'd group,
How oft have I belch'd pecks of soot in his soup:
Yet e'en that could not drive them from board, or from bed,