Or drollest Parsons, child of Drury,
Bawls out his damns with comic fury,
And ever, against hum-drum cares,
Sing me some of Dibdin’s airs,
Married to his own queer wit,
Such as my shaking sides may split,
In notes, with many a jolly bout,
Near Beaufort Buildings oft roar’d out,
With Wagging curls and smirk so cunning,
His rig on many a booby running,