Her bran new wipe I’ll proudly wear,
And pass the punch around,
But I must to my crib repair—
For, hark! the cleavers sound.
Oh! with my donkey I will go,
And greens and lettuce cry,
While my doxie patters with the foe,
I’ll toddle on the sly.
Their chaffing without fear she braves—
Her head with carrots crowned,