He'll be fresh as a lark to-morrow.
We thought, we'll be careful where we tread,
And avoid him where he's lying;
For if we should tumble over his head,
'Twould certainly send us flying.
Lightly they'll talk of him when they're gone,
And p'rhaps for his folly upbraid him;
But little he'll care, and again try it on,
Till the Serjeant-at-arms shall have stayed him.
But half of us asked, "What's now to be done?"