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My blue fustian breeches are worn to the stitches,
my legs you may see what between them:
My pockets all four I'm the son of a whore
if there's ever one farthing within them. &c,
I've stockings, 'tis true, but the devil a shoe,
I'm oblig'd to wear boots in all weather:
Be-damn'd the boot-sole, curse on the spur-roll,
confounded be the upper-leather. &c.
Had ye then but seen the sad plight I was in,
ye'd not seen such a poet 'mongst twenty,
I have nothing that's full, but my shirt and my skull,
for my pockets and belly are empty. &c.
I FIND I MUST LOVE.
TO little or no purpose I spent many days,
In ranging the Park, th' Exchange, and the plays;
For ne'er in my rambles, till now, did I prove,
So lucky to meet with the man I could love.
Oh! how I am pleased when I think on this man,
That I find must love, let me do what I can.
That I find, &c.
How long I shall love him, I can no more tell,
Than had I a fever, when I should be well.
My passion shall kill me, before I will show it:
And yet I would give all the world he did know it.
But oh! how I sigh, when I think, should he woo me,
I cannot deny what, I know, would undo me.
I cannot deny what, &c.
FINIS.
