Ah! Ah!—they will have you at last, Bloudie Jacke! The chimneys to search they begin;— They have found you at last!— There you are, sticking fast, With your knees doubled up to your chin, Though you're thin! —Dear me! what a mess you are in!—
What a terrible pickle you're in, Bloudie Jacke! Why, your face is as black as your hat! Your fine Holland shirt Is all over dirt! And so is your point-lace cravat! What a Flat To seek such an asylum as that!
They can scarcely help laughing, I vow, Bloudie Jacke! In the midst of their turmoil and strife; You're not fit to be seen!— You look like Mr. Kean In the play, where he murders his wife!— On my life You ought to be scraped with a knife!
They have pull'd you down flat on your back, Bloudie Jacke! They have pull'd you down flat on your back! And they smack, and they thwack, Till your "funny bones" crack, As if you were stretched on the rack, At each thwack!— Good lack! what a savage attack!
They call for the Parliament Man, Bloudie Jacke! And the Hangman, the matter to clinch, And they call for the Judge, But others cry "Fudge!— Don't budge Mr. Calcraft,[43] an inch! Mr. Lynch![44] Will do very well at a pinch!"
It is useless to scuffle and cuff, Bloudie Jacke! It is useless to struggle and bite! And to kick and to scratch! You have met with your match, And the Shrewsbury Boys hold you tight, Despite Your determined attempts "to shew fight."
They are pulling you all sorts of ways, Bloudie Jacke! They are twisting your right leg Nor-West, And your left leg due South, And your knee's in your mouth, And your head is poked down on your breast, And it's prest, I protest, almost into your chest!
They have pulled off your arms and your legs, Bloudie Jacke! As the naughty boys serve the blue flies; And they've torn from their sockets, And put in their pockets Your fingers and thumbs for a prize! And your eyes A Doctor has bottled—from Guy's.[45]
Your trunk, thus dismember'd and torn, Bloudie Jacke! They hew, and they hack, and they chop; And, to finish the whole, They stick up a pole In the place that's still called the "Wylde Coppe," And they pop Your grim gory head on the top!
They have buried the fingers and toes, Bloudie Jacke! Of the victims so lately your prey. From those fingers and eight toes Sprang early potatoes, "Ladyes' fyngers" they're called to this day; —So they say,— And you usually dig them in May.