Farmer's son or, The unfortunate lovers/Just the thing

JUST the THING.

On Newgate steps Jack Chance was found,
And bred up near St. Gile's pound,
My story's true, deny it who can,)
By saucy leering Billingsgate Nan
Her bosom glow'd with heart-felt joy,
When first she beheld the lovely boy,
Then home the prize she straight did bring,
And they all allow'd he was just the thing.

At twelve years old, as we are told,
The youth was sturdy, stout, and bold,
He had learn'd to curse. to swear to fight,
And every thing but read and write;
With daddies clean, he'd flip between
A crowd, and knap a clout unseen
And what he got he home would bring,
And they all allow'd he was just the thing.

But when he grew to man's estate,
His mind it ran on something great,
(illegible text) thieving then he scorn'd to tramp,
(illegible text)o hir'd a pad and went on the scamp.
To strut in the Park was all his pride,
With a famous whore stuck by his side;
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.