There's a prime bit of stuff to go,
No better, or I'm blow'd—
And narra wehicle I know
Can pass us on the road.
Kem-arp, my cripple! he's the lad,
To whisk along in style,
He'll run agin the trotting prad
And give him half a mile.
Who cares a farden for the veather,
Or if vith rain ve're duck'd;