Cry’d, “whose dog is that?” quoth the carman, “ask his a—, sir.”
The coachman drove on; but ere he’d driven very far,
Two wheels were left behind, and snap went the splinter bar;
Hurlow roar’d out aloud (tho’ no doubt he did wrong to’t),
For he blasted the bar, and all that belong’d to’t.
’Tis not long ago, since poor Jack, the Brighton taylor,
For stitching well a button-hole, was pinn’d up by the jailor:
The trial tells us, by surprise, snip seiz’d an artless lass, sir,
And cabbag’d her virginity, the best piece of her a—, sir.
The maiden scream’d, and snip teem’d with love’s delicious liquor;