In London were made, as you may see by their air;
The skin on Sir James, is not so fit as his coat,
And fine Bristol beer washes his throat.
No Newcastle furniture their office degrades,
Sir James Duncan employs no such bungling, vile blades,
As the paltry workmen, in this smokey town,
Whose finery often—has made us Bankers frown.
They are not worth an hundred thousand it’s true,
But supposing they were, cou’d the public, and you
Their friends be assured they wou’d not exceed