Altho’ by infection he dreads his sweet life,
He’ll shake hands with the cobbler or kiss the sweep’s wife,
Or perhaps he will dandle the sweet little child,
Till he suddenly finds that his trowsers are spoiled,
Tho’ his heart it is ready to come up at his throat,
Yet he’d do ten times more to secure a vote.
And then at the last, when all other means fail,
To catch them they try to put salt on their tails,
Don’t think I mean bribery, my good sir, dear no!
They only give friends a small present or so.