His curly poll will grace the hangman's pole,
A charming barber's block, upon my soul!
'Twill cut a figure in our "_Rotten Row_;"
I think that jest is witty--Ho, ho, ho!
Your soul in blackness with your visage vies--
You grin whene'er a fellow-creature dies.
You jackanapes! None of your paltry spite;
My heart's not black,--your liver 'tis that's white;
So hold your jaw. Why should I grieve to see
That men for love such arrant fools can be?
The more the merrier; for on each day,
Our Princess 'scapes a husband's dreaded sway;
She gives us all a good jollification,
Besides munificent gratification.
Now, don't you be so silly.
Her suitors are not dragged here willy-nilly;
They know the journey here their heads may cost 'em,
But 'tis no loss; for they've already lost 'em.