And when he's rigg'd, the gallows little brute
Goes rolling on the bed.
"Ullo," says I, "you're spiling of your togs;"
Says he, "D'ye see,
It's all along of love for the old trade:
Tongue and Chicken.
Father, I vos a sweep, as vonce you knew,
And still I likes to be all over flue."
Census return. All the madmen included.
O! facilis decensus—easy 'tis