I was in Margate once again. I limped along the pier;
I saw a great big vulgar man—I said, “What make you here?
The bloom upon your bulbous nose suggests the pewter can;”
Again, I said, “What make you here, you great big vulgar man?”
He scowled, that great big vulgar man, he deemed I meant to laugh,
He said (he was a vulgar man) he wouldn’t “stand no chaff.”
He turned the quid within his mouth, and from his seat he rose;
He stretched his hand wide out, and put his finger to his nose.
“Hark! don’t you hear, my vulgar friend? it’s striking ten,” I said;
“An hour when every decent man should surely be in bed;