They're all but a parcel of pigeons.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
When methodist-preachers come down,
A preaching that drinking is sinful,
I'll wager the rascals a crown,
They always preach best with a skin full.
But when you come down with your pence,
For a slice of their scurvy religion,
I'll leave it to all men of sense,
But you, my good friend, are the pigeon.