Ix

How slack is the crop till my Nancy return! No duds in my pocket, no sea-coal to burn! Methinks if I knew where the watchman wou'd tread, I wou'd follow, and lend him a punch o' the head. Fly swiftly, good watchman, bring hither my dear, And, blast me! I'll tip ye a gallon of beer. Ah, sink him! the watchman is full of delay, Nor will budge one foot faster for all I can say.