But, for the insult, to oppose them none dare.
When under the chin, Sir, she tucks the cloth in, Sir,
Their old quid they’ll pop in the pea-jacket cuff;
And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting,
And looking around with an air fierce and bluff:
Such tales as go round, Sir, would be sure to confound, Sir,
And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise;
But when she prepares, Sir, to take off the hair, Sir,
With lather, she whitens them up to the eyes.
No sooner the razor is laid on the face, Sir,