Why, then comes in the cheat o' the year,
And picks their plums, talk, song, or tale.
The white sheets come, each page my "perk,"
With heigh! sweet bards, O how they sing!—
With paste and scissors I set to work;
Shall a stolen song cost anything?
The Poet tirra-lirra chants,
With heigh! with heigh! he must be a J.—
His Summer songs supply my wants;
They cost me nought—but, ah! they pay.