They go to Tib Trollibag’s stand,
And away bear the glossy rich treasure,
With joy, like curl’d bugles in hand.
And now a choice house they agreed on,
Not far from the head of the Quay;
Where they their black puddings might feed on
And spend the remains of the day;
Where pipers and fiddlers resorted,
To pick up the straggling pence,
And where the pit lads often sported