Drinking, dancing, all revel, no rest; proggery, toggery, all of the best; whisking, frisking, whirling about, till daylight comes, driving the candle-light out: then tired, not fired, their pillows they clinch, and the festival's come to its very last pinch.
MANNERS MAKE THE MAN.
Know ye the wight one frequent meets,
With brazen lungs around the streets
Soliciting a job?
His head in shovel-hat encased,
His legs in cotton hose embraced,
And nick-named "Dusty Bob?"
You hold in small account, no doubt,
One who "dust, oh!" doth bawl about,