'Sblood! what a bump—
Not named in Spurzheim—
This cursed, confounded, and confounding pump,
With its large handle stretch'd out to the nor'ward,
Has suddenly developed on my forehead,
Which nothing hurts him!
How I should like to give some one a thumping!
You little scoundrel! night or day,
Whene'er I pass this way,
You d—d young rascal, you are always pumping!