In gallop the winds at the full of the moon,
And puff up the carpet like Sadler’s balloon;
My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot,
And there is not a lock in the house that will shut.
At Mahomet’s steam-bath I lean on my cane,
And murmur in secret, “Oh, Billiter Lane!”
But would not express what I think for a crown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine;
His Majesty never invites me to dine;