Oh! where will be the culls of the bing
A hundred stretches hence?
The bene morts, who sweetly sing,
A hundred stretches hence?
The autum-cacklers, autum-coves,
The jolly blade who wildly roves;
And where the buffer, bruiser, blowen,
And all the cops and beaks so knowin',
A hundred stretches hence?
And where the swag, so bleakly pinched,
A hundred stretches hence?
The thimbles, slang, and danglers filched,
A hundred stretches hence?
The chips, the fawneys, chatty-feeders,
The bugs, the boungs, and well-filled readers;
And where the fence and snoozing-ken,
With all the prigs and lushing men,
A hundred stretches hence?
Played out their lay, it will be said
A hundred stretches hence,
With shovels they were put to bed
A hundred stretches since!
Some rubbed to whit had napped a winder,
And some were scragged and took a blinder,
Planted the swag, and lost to sight,
We'll bid them, one and all, good night,
A hundred stretches hence.