I

Spring's the boy for a Moulsey-Hurst rig, my lads, Shaking a flipper, and milling a pate; Fibbing a nob is most excellent gig, my lads, Kneading the dough is a turn-out in state. Tapping the claret to him is delighting, Belly-go-firsters and clicks of the gob; For where are such joys to be found as in fighting, And measuring mugs for a chancery job: With flipping and milling, and fobbing and nobbing, With belly-go-firsters and kneading the dough, With tapping of claret, and clipping and gobbing, Say just what you please, you must own he's the go.