he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown,
And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a
distracted Mother and Father about Town.
Billy—where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy,
come home, to your best of Mothers!
I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they
drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers.
Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping
wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not,
And be poked up behind with a picked pointed