His blue bird’s eye he has girded on,
And has left his flame behind him.
Fancy sport, cried the leary cove,
Though every Beak betrays thee,
One soul at least thy sprees shall love,
One faithful chaunt shall praise thee.
The cove was floor’d, but he show’d high game,
Nor like a cur knocked under.
His chaunt will ne’er be clear again,
For his nose was split asunder.