He’ll beg for half-pence when he can,
And say he is a dying man;
But if three half-pence he has got,
He’ll go and find another sot.
As mean and shabby as himself,
A dirty, ragged, drunken elf,
In some alehouse corner seated,
Waiting longing to be treated.
They freely enter into chat,
If they can but catch a flat;