On a Certain Print
That cockt-up nose there, shining like the knob
Of greasy plow-boy's hazle switch,
Is a vile woman's.—tho' upon this globe
Few are so high, and none so rich,
A tinker of tin-shavings she would rob,
Or ointment from Scotch pedlar's breech.
Who that comes filching farthings from one's fob
Need ever feel a fouler itch?
Of greasy plow-boy's hazle switch,
Is a vile woman's.—tho' upon this globe
Few are so high, and none so rich,
A tinker of tin-shavings she would rob,
Or ointment from Scotch pedlar's breech.
Who that comes filching farthings from one's fob
Need ever feel a fouler itch?
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