Page:Farmer's son or, The unfortunate lovers.pdf/8

 At clubs he all flash songs would sing.

And they all allow'd he was just the thing.

His manual exercise he had gone thro',

Both Bridewell pump, and Horse-pond too;

His back had often felt the smart

Of Tyburn jigs at the tail of a cart;

He stood the patter, but that was no matter,

He gammon'd the twelve, & work'd on the water

But a pardon he got from a gracious King,

And swaggering Jack he was just the thing.

Blue cockade in hat, well arm'd for war,

With bludgeon stout, or iron bar,

To head a mob he ne'er would fail;

At gutting a mass-house, or burning a jail,

But a victim he fell to his country's laws,

And dy'd at last in religion's cause;

No Pop'ry made the blade to swing,

And when tuck'd up he was just the thing.