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Sleeve linings, pockets, silk and twist, And all the long expensive list, With which their uncouth bills abound, Though rarely in their garments found ; By these and other arts in trade Had soon a pretty fortune made, And did what few have ever done, Left thirty thousand to his son. The son, a gay young swaggering blade, Abhor'd the very name of trade ; An' lest reflection should be thrown, On him, resolved to leave the town. And travel where he was not known, In gilded coach and liveries gay, To Oxford first he took his way; There beaux and belies his taste admire. His equippage and rich attire, As his fine silver hilted sword, Tho' short and small, 'twas vastly neat, The sight was deem'd a perfect treat; Beau Banter begg'd to have a look, But when the sword in hand he took, He swore by Gad 'twas an odd thing, And look'd much like a Tailor's bodkin. His pride was hurt by this expression Thinking they knew his sire's profession ; Sheathing his sword he sneak'd away, And drove for Glo'ster that same day. There soon he found new cause for grief, For dining on some fine roast beef, One asked him which he did prefer, Some cabbage or a Cucumber.