But all his arts are vain.

His nankeen trowsers we despise,

Unfit for rain or dew,

And, pinch'd in stays, he vainly tries

His strength against the yew.

The yew, the yew, &c.

IV.

The heiress, once, of Bowdale Hall,

A lovely lass, I knew—

A Dandy paid his morning call,