Just tottle me up! I’m all in it, dear boy,
With tile ever shiny and boots ever tight;
Like all Things of Beauty, for ever a joy,
The envy of toffs, and the ladies’ delight.
When I stroll on the sands all the girls try to count
The number of pockets my garments display:
There are twenty, all told,—’tis a tidy amount,
Though there is’nt much in them, I’m sorry to say.
There are many like me who in youth would have tasted
The fountain of Pleasure that flows by the brine,