But being found defaulter,
Turned rumbler's flunkey for my meat, [3]
So was brought up to the halter.
Frisk the cly, and fork the rag, [4]
Draw the fogies plummy, [5]
Speak to the rattles, bag the swag, [6]
And finely hunt the dummy. [7]

II

My name they say is young Birdlime,
My fingers are fish-hooks, sirs;
And I my reading learnt betime, [8]
From studying pocket-books, sirs;
I have a sweet eye for a plant, [9]
And graceful as I amble,
Finedraw a coat-tail sure I can't
So kiddy is my famble. [10]
_Chorus_. Frisk the cly, etc.

III

A night bird oft I'm in the cage, [11]
But my rum-chants ne'er fail, sirs;
The dubsman's senses to engage, [12]
While I tip him leg-bail, sirs; [13]
There's not, for picking, to be had,
A lad so light and larky, [14]
The cleanest angler on the pad [15]
In daylight or the darkey. [16]