It's "a pretty particular Fix," Bloudie Jacke! —Above,—there's the Maiden that's dead; Below—growling at her— There's that Cannibal Cur, Who at present is munching her bread, Instead Of her leg,—or her arm,—or her head.
It's "a pretty particular Fix," Bloudie Jacke! She is caught like a mouse in a trap;— Stay! there's something, I think, That has slipp'd through a chink, And fall'n, by a singular hap, Slap, Into poor little Mary-Anne's lap!
It's a very fine little gold ring, Bloudie Jacke! Yet, though slight, it's remarkably stout, But it's made a sad stain, Which will always remain On her frock—for Blood will not wash out; I doubt Salts of Lemon won't bring it about!
She has grasp'd that gold ring in her hand, Bloudie Jacke! In an instant she stands on the floor, She makes but one bound O'er the back of the hound, And a hop, skip, and jump to the door, And she's o'er The drawbridge she'd traversed before!
Her hair's floating loose in the breeze, Bloudie Jacke! For gone is her "bonnet of blue." —Now the Barbican's past!— Her legs "go it" as fast As two drumsticks a-beating tattoo, As they do At Réveillie, Parade, or Review!
She has run into Shrewsbury town, Bloudie Jacke! She has called out the Beadle and May'r, And the Justice of Peace, And the Rural Police, Till "Battle Field" swarms like a Fair,— And see there!— E'en the Parson's beginning to swear!!
There's a pretty to-do in your Tower, Bloudie Jacke! In your Tower there's a pretty to-do! All the people of Shrewsbury Playing old gooseberry With your choice bits of taste and virtù; Each bijou Is upset in their search after you!
They are playing the deuce with your things, Bloudie Jacke! There's your Cupid is broken in two, And so too, between us, is Each of your Venuses, The "Antique" ones you bought of the Jew, And the new One, George Robins swears came from St. Cloud.
The Callipyge's injured behind, Bloudie Jacke! The De Medici's injured before; And the Anadyomene 's injured in so many Places, I think there's a score, If not more, Of her fingers and toes on the floor.
They are hunting you up stairs and down, Bloudie Jacke! Every person to pass is forbid, While they turn out the closets And all their deposits— "There's the dust-hole—come lift up the lid!"— So they did— But they could not find where you were hid!