Says Turpin, “You shall eat your words, With a sarse of leaden bul⁠—let”; So he puts a pistol to his mouth, And he fires it down his gul⁠—let. The coachman he not likin’ the job, Set off at full gal-lop, But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop.

Chorus (sarcastically)

But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop.

“I maintain that that ’ere song’s personal to the cloth,” said the mottled-faced gentleman, interrupting it at this point. “I demand the name o’ that coachman.”

“Nobody know’d,” replied Sam. “He hadn’t got his card in his pocket.”