My lodging is in Leather-lane,
A parlour that’s next to the sky;
’Tis exposed to the wind and the rain,
But the wind and the rain I defy:
Such love warms the coldest of spots,
As I feel for Scrubinda the fair,
Oh! she lives by the scouring of pots,
In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.
Oh! was I a pint, quart or jill,
To be scrubb’d by her delicate hands;