He’s blue eyes, and not to be call’d a squint, though a little cast he’s certainly got;
And his nose is still a good un, tho’ the bridge is broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot;
He’s got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large teeth for his age;
And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson’s child to play Cupid on the Drury Lane Stage.
And then he has got such dear winning ways—but oh I never never shall see him no more!
O dear! to think of losing him just after nursing him back from death’s door!
Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang ’em, was at twenty a penny!
And the threepence he’d got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many.
And the Cholera man came and whitewash’d us all and, drat him, made a seize of our hog.
It’s no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he’s such a blunderin’ drunken old dog;