Page:Tibby Fowler, or, The lass with the siller bridle.pdf/6

                      ( 6 ) The Surgeon ſo bold, His lancet doth hold, And flaſhes your body along: Small wounds he enlarges, To ſwell up your charges, His art like the reſt is a ſong. The ſoldier he rattles Of ſieges and battles, And actions that he's been among: His preferment and ſpirit Are both like his merit, You ſee they are bought for a ſong. The maſter he cries, See the clouds how they riſe, Up aloft my briſk lads, it blows ſtrong, Boys make us ſome ſlip, And I'll warrant the ſhip, Will ſoon reach her port is his ſong. Vers'd in quirks and in quibbles, The lawyer he ſcribbles, And moves his mellifluous tongue, 'Twixt a demur and vacation, He'll raiſe his expectation, Then ſink your eſtate to a ſong.

The merchant is bent On his twenty per cent, To him journal and leger belong, Commiſſion with charges His profit enlarges, Till his balance may end in a ſong.