You've been to Cheltenham, I find,
And, zounds! you really ride the wind,
To Bath and Worcester too;
To South'ton and the Isle of Wight,
As if increase of appetite
With every new dish grew.
~239
But it was really _infra dig_.
Spite of your old horse and new gig,
You did not, some fine morn,
Drive up to Malcolm Ghur, d'ye see,{4}
And leave two pretty cards for me
And Sir John Barleycorn.
We would have been your chorus, sir,
Or, an' you pleased, your trumpeter,
And _lioned_ you about;
Have shown you every pretty girl,
And every _nouvelle_ quadrille twirl,
And every crowded rout.
At eight o' morns have call'd you down,
(What would they say of that in town?)
To swallow pump-room water;
At eight o' nights have call'd you up,
(Our grandams used just then to sup),
To 'gin the dinner slaughter.
Have whisk'd you o'er to Colonel B's,
Or drove you up to Captain P's,
Dons unto Cheltenham steady.
But I forget the world, good lack,
Have play'd enough with such a pack
Of great court-cards already.
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