A HUNDRED STRETCHES HENCE

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 know in', 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.