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At clubs he all flash songs would sing.
And they all allow'd he was just the thing.
His manual exercise he had gone thro',
Both Bridewell pump, and Horse-pond too;
His back had often felt the smart
Of Tyburn jigs at the tail of a cart;
He stood the patter, but that was no matter,
He gammon'd the twelve, & work'd on the water
But a pardon he got from a gracious King,
And swaggering Jack he was just the thing.
Blue cockade in hat, well arm'd for war,
With bludgeon stout, or iron bar,
To head a mob he ne'er would fail;
At gutting a mass-house, or burning a jail,
But a victim he fell to his country's laws,
And dy'd at last in religion's cause;
No Pop'ry made the blade to swing,
And when tuck'd up he was just the thing.
THE ROVER.
Away you rover.
For shame give over,
You play the wild rover so like an ass;
You are for storming
You think you're charming,
Your faint performing, we read in your face
GLASGOW,
Printed by J.& M. ROBERTSON, Saltmarket, 1803
