Who wander the streets in their fuddling gills;
And those folks with bags, Sir, who buy up old rags, Sir,
That deal in fly-cages, and paper windmills.
There pitmen, with baskets and gay posey waistcoats,
Discourse about nought but whee puts and hews best:
There keelmen, just landed, swear may they be stranded,
If they’re not shav’d first while their keel’s at the Fest;
With a face of coal dust, would frighten one almost,
Thro’ off hat and wig, while they usurp the chair;
While others stand looking, and think it provoking,