Ruin seize thee, scoundrel Coe!
Confusion on thy frizzing wait;
Hadst thou the only comb below,
Thou never more shouldst touch my pate.
Club, nor queue, nor twisted tail,
Nor e'en thy chatt'ring, barber! shall avail
To save thy horse-whipp'd back from daily fears,
From Cantab's curse, from Cantab's tears!
Such were the sounds that o'er the powder'd pride
Of Coe the barber scattered wild dismay,
As down the steep of Jackson's slippery lane,
He wound with puffing march his toilsome, tardy way.