And yet it could skip like a deer;
For colour and size (I’m a sinner,
I scorn, as the folks say, to slide,)
’Twas just like Hob Trumble’s gimmer,
Which he sold for six-pence a side.
It was a confounded bad liver,
Like Ferry the piper’s old cat;
It ne’er could be brought to behaviour,
Though it has got many a bat;
It had been so spoil’d in up-bringing,