Slopsellers, sailors, three Tooley Street tailors, All the élite of St. Thomas's Street, The Mint, and the Fleet! The bear's at Polito's jigging his jolly toes; Mr. Punch, with his hooked nose and hunch; Patrick O'Brien, of giants the lion; And Simon Paap, that sits in his lap; The Lady that sews, and knits her hose, And mends her clothes, and rubs her nose, And comes and goes, without fingers and toes! You may take a slice of roast beef on the ice; At the Wellington Tap, and Mother Red-cap, The stout runs down remarkably brown! To the Thimble and Thistle, the Pig and Whistle, Worthy Sir Felix has sent some choice relics Of liquor, I'm told, to keep out the cold! If you 've got a sweet tooth, there 's the gingerbread booth-- To the fife and the fiddle we'll dance down the middle, Take a sup again, then dance up again! And have our names printed off on the Thames; Mister and Missis (all Cupids and kisses!) Dermot O'Shinnigly, in a jig, in a glee! And take a slide, or ha'penny ride From Blackfriars Bridge to the Borough! The sun won't rise till you open your eyes-- Then give the sly slip to the sleepers. Don't, Miss Clark, let us be in the dark, But open your window and peepers. A friend of ours who had a tumble, declared, that though he had no desire to see the city burnt down, he devoutly wished to have the streets _laid in ashes!_ And another, somewhat of a penurious turn, being found in bed late in the morning, and saluted with, “What! not yet risen?” replied, “No; nor shall I till _coals fall!_” CHAPTER VI.