There was a young lady of Harrow.
Who complained that her Cunt was too narrow,
For times without number
She would use a cucumber,
But could not accomplish a marrow.
There was a young lady of Glasgow,
And fondly her lover did ask, "Oh,
Pray allow me a fuck,"
But she said, "No, my duck,
But you may, if you please, up my arse go."
There was a young man had the art
Of making a capital tart,
With a handful of shit,
Some snot and a spit,
And he'd flavor the whole with a fart.
There was an old man of Connaught.
Whose prick was remarkably short,
When he got into bed
The old woman said,
"This isn't a prick, it's a wart."
There was a gay Countess of Bray,
And you may think it odd when I say,
That in spite of high station,
Rank and education,
She always spelt Cunt with a K.
There was an old parson of Lundy,
Fell asleep in his vestry on Sunday;
He awoke with a scream,
"What, another wet dream,
This comes of not frigging since Monday."
There was a strong man of Drumrig,
Who one day did seven times frig;
He buggered three Sailors,
Four Jews and two Tailors,
And ended by fucking a pig.
There was an Old Man of the Mountain.
Who frigged himself into a fountain,
Fifteen times had he spent.
Still he wasn't content.
He simply got tired of the counting.
There was a young man of Nantucket.
Who went down a well in a bucket;
The last words he spoke.
Before the rope broke,
Were, "Arsehole, you bugger, and suck it."
A native of Havre de Grace
Once tired of Cunt, said "I'll try arse."
He unfolded his plan
To another young man,
Who said, "Most decidedly, my arse!"
At the Parish Church, South Hackney, by the Rev. C. A. White, John Henry Bottomfeldt, of Hamburgh, to Sarah Jane Greens, of South Hackney. (Vide "Daily Telegraph," January 3, 1875).
How lovely everything now seems
When joined in one by Hymen's belt,
For now John Henry has his Greens,
And Sarah Jane her Bottom-feldt.