Poor donkey, I'll give him a handfull of grass,
I'm sure he's a good-natured honest old ass;
He trots to the market, to carry the sack,
And lets me ride all the way on his back.

Here's old Toby Philpot,
As hearty a soul,
As e'er quaff'd a pipe,
Or partook of a bowl.
The Sportsman here at early morn,
With dog and gun is seen;
The Huntsman sounds his mellow horn;
All nature looks serene.

The dying parent, like a wailing breeze,
Moans in the fev'rish grasp of pale disease;
While sad and watching, with a sleepless eye,
Her lovely daughter sits and muses by.