Trip it, gipsies, trip it fine,
— Show tricks and lofty capers;
At threading-needles we repine,
— And leaping over rapiers:
Pindy-pandy rascal toys,
— We scorn cutting purses;
Though we live by making noise,
— For cheating none can curse us.

Over high ways, over low,
— And over stones and gravel,
Though we trip it on the toe,
— And thus for silver travel:
Though our dances waste our backs,
— At night fat capons mend them;
Eggs well brewed in buttered sack,
— Our wenches say befriend them.

Oh, that all the world were mad!
— Then should we have fine dancing;
Hobby-horses would be had,
— And brave girls keep a-prancing;
Beggars would on cock-horse ride,
— And boobies fall a-roaring;
And cuckolds, though no horns be spied,
— Be one another goring.

Welcome, poet, to our ging!
— Make rhymes, we 'll give thee reason,
Canary bees thy brains shall sting,
— Mull-sack did ne'er speak treason;
Peter-see-me shall wash thy nowl,
— And Malaga glasses fox thee;
If, poet, thou toss not bowl for bowl,
— Thou shalt not kiss a doxy.