Fore and aft they are plump to view, but feel, and you will find, sir,
They’ve bubbies like blown bladders, and all is hum behind, sir.
Oh poverty! our purses spare, and pains, do not perplex us,
Still the cheerful song we’ll chaunt, nor shall trifles ever vex us;
But leave to dreary dull dogs their cheerless hours to spend, sir,
Whilst we, in mirthful mood, meet our bottles, c⸺s, and friends, sir.
Now the sequel of my song mark well each humbug brother,
Tho’ here we laugh, drink and joke, and humbug one another;
When out of wind, Death hums us, and we’re sent the Lord knows where, sir,
If we’ve humbugg’d the Devil, I’ll be d⸺d if we need fear, sir.