Confusion on thy frizzing wait,
Hadst thou the only comb below,
Thou never more should’st touch my pate.
Club nor queue, nor twisted tail,
Nor e’en thy chattering, barber! shall avail
To save thy horsewhipped back from daily fears,
From Cantabs’ curse, from Cantabs’ tears!”
Such were the sounds that o’er the powder’d pride
Of Coe the barber scatter’d wild dismay,
As down the steep of Jackson’s slippery lane