EDWIN'S PILLS, &c, SONG

The Captain see a ranting blade, Expert at grand manoeuvre; My march the pride of our parade, My bow could grace the Louvre. In taste and ton, no travel'd Mac, Of joint shall put my nose out; At shrug and grin, I've got a knack, And see I turn my toes out. With a ran tan, tip pop, tweedle, Full can, tip top, diddle, Nan fan, hip hop, Fiddle. Thus we skip it up, trip it up, keep it up boys, And rattle up all before us.

Through Park, or Mall, as I pass by Each fair I strike with wonder, Beneath a hat, or roguish eye, With ogle I peep under. No tactics dull in peace or war My sprightly thought entangle, And while I hold my sweet guittar, My sword at heels may dangle. With a ran, tan, pip pop, tweedle, Full can, tip top, diddle, Nan fan, hip hop, fiddle. Thus we skip it up, trip it up, keep it up boys, And rattle up all before us.

My dear and I lead up the ball, For that's the Captain's due, Sir! My head is puff'd with Mareschalle, I sport a noble queue Sir! I sigh, and squeeze my chapeau bras, No more I block a beaver; The whisper runs, how fine—Oh la! They're right, I'm monstrous clever. With my ran tan, pip pop, tweedle, Full can, tip top, diddle, Nan fan, hip hop, fiddle. Thus we skip it up, trip it up, keep it up boys, And rattle up all before us.