Fit for Fagin's juvenile gang;
While the charity chap,
With his muffin cap,
His crimson coat, and his badge so garish,
Playing at dumps, or pitch in the hole,
Cursed his eyes, limbs, body, and soul,
As if they didn't belong to the Parish!
'Twas awful to hear, as she went along,
The wicked words of the popular song;
Or supposing she listen'd—as gossips will—