So kiddy is my famble[260].
Chorus. Frisk the cly, etc.,
A night bird,[261] oft I’m in the cage[262],
But my rum chants ne’er fail, sirs,
The dubsman’s[263] senses to engage,
While I tip him leg-bail[264], sirs.
There’s not, for picking, to be had,
A lad so light and larky[265],
The cleanest angler on the pad[266],
In daylight or the darkey[267].