Albeit thou'rt rake and rogue, and thief and knave,
Of ev'ry grace and goodness quite bereft,
With not a virtue to redeem thee left;
Spite of thy faults, oh, Punch! we love thee all!
And hence thy Wooden Worship dost impart
A moral sound to every conscious heart:
Thou show'st us, Punch, that we're not over-nice
When wit and humour are allied to vice.
But as thy close acquaintance brings hard knocks
On wooden blocks,—