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"Ye sons of iron, copper, brass and steel,Who have not heads to think, nor hearts to feel."

"Brumagem has altered so,There's scarce a place in it I know;Round the town you now must goTo find old Brumagem."

"Poor old Spiceal Street half gone,The poor old Church stands all alone,And poor old I can only groan,That I can't find Brumagem."

'The wretch that stamped got immortal fame,'Twas coined by stealth, like groats in Birminghame."

"For your own ladies, and pale-visag'd maids,Like Amazons, come tripping after drums.Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change;Their needles to lances."

"Thou liest, thou thread, thou thimble."

"And that I'll prove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble,"