She was pinch’d and something worse,
And she was fobb’d and lost her purse,
Tell how the drudging Weltjee sweat,
To bake his custards duly set,
When in one night, ere clock went seven,
His ’prentice-lad had robb’d the oven
Of more than twenty hands had put in;
Then lies him down, a little glutton,
Stretch’d lumbering ’fore the fire, they tell ye,
And bakes the custards in his belly;