“You are stout, Father William, as I said before,
And my questions may savour of cheek.
If you clapped on the sweaters and used them once more,
How much could you waste in a week?”
“In my youth,” said old Billy, “in flannels and wraps
I’ve toiled over mountain and plain;
But such practices never suit podgy old chaps,
So I’m blest if I do it again.”
“You are ’cute,” said the Scribe, “and your intellect’s clear,
Your son is of jockeys the crack;