To catgut, cat-call did reply,
With bell and bugle brazen!
And all the Gods, that sat on high,
Help’d out the diapason.
Yet bides Jack Kemble on the bent,
A Don of thorough blood;
With aitches though his head was rent,
Firm as a mule he stood.
“Show me,” said he, “what ’tis you want?
“What want ye here?” he cried