Then painful distortions take place on the brow;
But if they complain, Sir, they’ll find it in vain, Sir,
She’ll tell them there’s nought but what Patience can do;
And as she scrapes round ’em, if she by chance wound ’em,
They’ll cry out as tho’ she’d bereav’d them of life,
“’Od smash your brains, woman! I find the blood’s coming,
“I’d rather been shav’d with an au’d gully knife!”
For all they can say, Sir, she still rasps away, Sir,
And sweeps round their jaw, the chop torturing tool;
Till they in a pet, Sir, request her to whet, Sir: