If e’er I do WELL 'tis a WONDER.
WHen I was a young lad, my fortune was bad,
if e’er I do well ’tis a wonder;
I spent all my means, on whores, bawds, and queens,
then I got a commission to plunder.
Fal all de rall, &c.
The hat I have on so greasy is grown,
remarkable ⟨'tis⟩ for it’s shining;
'Tis stitch'd all about, without button or loop,
and never a bit of a lining. &c.
The coat I have on, so thread-bare is grown,
so out at the arm-pits and elbows,
That I look'd as absurd as a sailor on board,
that has lain fifteen months in the bilboes. &c.
My shirt it is tore both behind and before,
the colour is much like a cinder;
'Tis so thin and so fine, that it is my design,
to present it to the muses for tinder. &c.
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.