"All ri' you needn' 'shult me, I'm a berrer man than you;
Mr. Goschen couldn' shpare me as a shource of revenue."
And when we led him home at night we scorned the foolish antic all
That flung him into gutters, made him friendly with a post;
And we snubbed him when he told us—we were always too pedantical—
That he saw a thousand niggers dressed in red on buttered toast.
He was better, now I know it, than our soberheaded crew,
We who added not a farthing to the country's revenue.
And, oh, the folly of his wife, I scarcely can imagine it,
When to his room he reeled at last and went to bed in boots.