Wipin’ his zweatty jaws and poull
All over dust we spy’d Squire Rolle,
Close by the King’s coach trattin’:
Now shovin’ in the coach his head,
Meaning, we giss’d, it might be zed,
The Squire and King be chattin’.
Now goed the Aldermen and May’r,
Zum wey cropp’d wigs, and zum wey hair,
The Royal Voke to ken;
When Measter May’r, upon my word,