Jaseys to lett of all colours but grey;
But, what do I see, that gives me such glee,
You’re cocking your cap and your caxon at me.
Now into a scrape, by love, I’m led,
Your wig, dear ma’am, has twisted my head;
My heart, too, I feel, goes pitty pat,
But what care you or your jasey for that;
Yet I’m no flat—I know what I’m at,
I’ll soon mount a wig of my own to match that:
I care not a fig—the woman I twig