O, Mr. Cross, 'tay'nt you, but I am cross.
I really thought thou had'st been much genteeler,
Polite-o was thy grandfather, remember
Thou wert a Merchant Tailor, and a stealer
To school in younger days, in cold December,
Then did thy fingers, shiv'ring like a Russ,
Make thee to feel—thou could'st not feel for us.
At Charing Cross, the Golden Cross is thine
No longer; why, then hurry us so near it,
We do not in the little tap-room dine,