But the lark’s when a goney[h] up with us they shut,
As ain’t up to our lurks, our flash-putter,[j] and smut;
But soon in his eye nothing green will remain,
He knows what’s o’clock when he comes out again.
And the next time he’s quodded,[k] so downy and snug,
He may thank us for making him fly to the jug.[l]
But here comes a cuffin—which cuts short my tale,
It’s agin rules is screevin’[m] to pals out o’ goal.
(The following postscript seems to have been added when the Warder had passed.)
For them coves in Guildhall and that blessed Lord Mayor,