Without a friend, without a mag.
With downcast look the John Bull fighter sate,
And gaz’d upon the tuneful bard:
“Alack! for Charles, my friend,” cried he;
“What! must he go across the sea?
’Tis gallows, gallows hard!”
But Frosty Fogo’s powers began to fail;
The sounds he tried to vent
Within his throat were pent,
Subdu’d by max, and heavy wet, and ale.