The porter-mug fill high,
Baked curls and locks prepare;
Reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live,
Close by the greasy chair
Fell thirst and famine lie,
No more to art will beauteous nature give.
Heard ye the gang of Fielding say,
Sir John,[7] at last we've found their haunt,
To desperation driv'n by hungry want,
Thro' the crammed laughing Pit they steal their way.
Ye tow'rs of Newgate! London's lasting shame,
By many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere poor Mr. Coe, the blacksmith's[8] fame,
And spare the grinning barber's chuckle head.