I’ll marry, by jasey, in spite of her wig.
The light or dark, brown, black, or flax,
No jasey pays Pitt’s hair-powder tax;
And when with men, maids romp and play,
How cool to throw the wiggy away;
By night or by day, to frisk, romp, or play,
On carpet, bed, sopha, green grass, or new hay;
Whate’er it’s upon, a little crim. con.,
With a lady’s rough jasey’s expensive bon ton.
Pray, ma’am, does the colour of your scratch