HOT CODLINGS.

A littleold woman, a living she got,By selling hot codlings, hot, hot, hot!Now this little old woman, as I’ve been told,Though her codlings were hot, she was monstrously cold,So to keep herself warm, she thought no sin,For to go and take a small drop of gin,Fol-de-rol, etc.Now this little old woman went off in a trot,To get a quartern of hot, hot, hot!She swallowed a glass, and it was so nice,That she tipped off another, all in a trice,She fill’d the glass till the bottle it shrunk,And this little old woman I’m told got drunk.Now this little old woman, while muzzy she got,Some boys stole her codlings, hot, hot, hot!Put powder in the pan, and ’neath it round stones,Cried this little woman, these apples have bones.The powder and the pan up they did send,This little old woman on her latter end.Now this little old woman went off in a trot,All in a fury, hot, hot, hot!Sure such boys as these never were known,They never will let a poor woman alone,There’s a moral from this, so round let it buzIf you want to sell codlings, you must never get muz.

Now this little old woman went off in a trot,To get a quartern of hot, hot, hot!She swallowed a glass, and it was so nice,That she tipped off another, all in a trice,She fill’d the glass till the bottle it shrunk,And this little old woman I’m told got drunk.

Now this little old woman, while muzzy she got,Some boys stole her codlings, hot, hot, hot!Put powder in the pan, and ’neath it round stones,Cried this little woman, these apples have bones.The powder and the pan up they did send,This little old woman on her latter end.

Now this little old woman went off in a trot,All in a fury, hot, hot, hot!Sure such boys as these never were known,They never will let a poor woman alone,There’s a moral from this, so round let it buzIf you want to sell codlings, you must never get muz.

This song, was, as far I can find, introduced by Grimaldi in Thos. J. Dibdin’s famous Pantomime of “Mother Goose,” which in 1806-7 had the unprecedented run of a hundred and fifty nights, and was a favourite for very many years. When Pantomimes were Pantomimes, and not mere spectacles, the clowns were real clowns (the Shakesperian and French hybrids not having been born), and the names of Grimaldi, Matthews, and others will go down to posterity. No Pantomime was complete without the clown singing this song, which was always encored, and, as a substitute, invariably was given “Tippetiwitchet,” of which the theme was an intoxicated man. Perhaps, if revived, Modern Society would not appreciate them, but forty or fifty years ago tastes were not so superfine, and these clowns and their songs afforded hilarious amusement.

Nowlist, ye landsmen, all to me,To tell you the truth I am bound,What happen’d to me, by going to Sea,And of the wonders which I found.Shipwrecked I once was off Perouse,And cast upon the shore,So I resolved to take a cruise,The Country to explore.But far I had not scudded out,When close alongside to the ocean,I saw something move, which at first I thought,Was all the earth in motion.But steering up alongside,I found ’twas a Crocodile,And from his nose to the tip of his tailHe measured five hundred mile.This Crocodile, I could plainly see,Was not of a common race,For I was obliged to climb a very high treeBefore I could see his face.And when he lifted up his jaw,Though perhaps you'll think 'twas a lie,It reach'd 'bove the clouds for miles three score,And his nose nearly touched the sky.Whilst up aloft, and the stream was high,It blew a gale from the south,I lost my hold, and away did fly,Right into the Crocodile's mouth.He quickly closed his jaws on me,And thought to grab a victim,But I ran down his throat d'ye see,And that's the way I tricked him.I travell'd on for a month or two,Till I got into his maw,Where I found of rum kegs not a few,And a thousand bullocks in store.Of life I banish'd all my cares,For in grub I was not stinted,So in this Crocodile I lived ten years,Very well contented.This Crocodile being very old,One day, alas! he died,But he was three years a getting cold,He was so long and wide.His skin was ten miles thick, I'm sure,Or very near about;For I was full six years or more,Cutting a hole for to get out.But now once more I’ve got on earth,And resolv’d no more to roam,So in a ship that pass’d, I got a berth,And now I’m safe at home.And lest my story you should doubt,Should you ever travel the Nile,Just where he fell, you’ll find the shell,Of this wonderful Crocodile.

But far I had not scudded out,When close alongside to the ocean,I saw something move, which at first I thought,Was all the earth in motion.But steering up alongside,I found ’twas a Crocodile,And from his nose to the tip of his tailHe measured five hundred mile.

This Crocodile, I could plainly see,Was not of a common race,For I was obliged to climb a very high treeBefore I could see his face.

And when he lifted up his jaw,Though perhaps you'll think 'twas a lie,It reach'd 'bove the clouds for miles three score,And his nose nearly touched the sky.

Whilst up aloft, and the stream was high,It blew a gale from the south,I lost my hold, and away did fly,Right into the Crocodile's mouth.He quickly closed his jaws on me,And thought to grab a victim,But I ran down his throat d'ye see,And that's the way I tricked him.

I travell'd on for a month or two,Till I got into his maw,Where I found of rum kegs not a few,And a thousand bullocks in store.Of life I banish'd all my cares,For in grub I was not stinted,So in this Crocodile I lived ten years,Very well contented.

This Crocodile being very old,One day, alas! he died,But he was three years a getting cold,He was so long and wide.His skin was ten miles thick, I'm sure,Or very near about;For I was full six years or more,Cutting a hole for to get out.

But now once more I’ve got on earth,And resolv’d no more to roam,So in a ship that pass’d, I got a berth,And now I’m safe at home.And lest my story you should doubt,Should you ever travel the Nile,Just where he fell, you’ll find the shell,Of this wonderful Crocodile.

I singof a man to some well known,Who went and listed in the King’s Own,For he was tall, and mighty grown,Full six feet high of flesh and bone.Ri lol, lol, lay, etc.Now this man to battle did go,The balls flew thick, and whistled so,There was one came straight and gave him a blow,And knocked off his arm above his elbow.When the surgeon came to look at the woundA noted thief lay on the ground,Quite dead, but still he’d a perfect arm,So he sawed it off while it was warm.Now this arm he spliced to our hero’s stump,And bound it fast, wasn’t he a trump?And in a short time it got well,As many of that brave corps can tell.This man he turned out a thief,And was discharged for stealing beef,For with this cursed thief’s arm he got,He could let nothing be too heavy or hot.Then up to London he did repair,To see if advice he could get there,And all the way that he did jog,The arm was at work, and found him in prog.And when he got there he walked along,And strove to bustle through the throng,But the arm kept diving in every one’s pocket,He tried all he could, but he couldn’t stop it.It stole him watches, gold and rings,And many other precious things,And one night he found he’d wealth in store,For Bandanna wipes, he had a score.He robbed the Bank and Treasury,Likewise a Poet at the play,And, one night, ’tis really said,He stole a glass eye from an old woman’s head.Now this arm had such a propensityFor stealing, that it could not stay,It robb’d a regiment of its baggage,Likewise a tailor of all his cabbage.Long time he carried on the trade,Until he had a fortune made,But for a crime he was afterwards taken,And sent by the Judge to be hung up like bacon.And when he came to the gallows tree,With the Parson’s watch he did make free,And as Jack Ketch was tying the knot,He pick’d his pocket of all he’d got.Now this man, he was buried, as you may suppose,And after that the arm arose,And join’d a body-snatching knave,Who stole his master out of his grave.

I singof a man to some well known,Who went and listed in the King’s Own,For he was tall, and mighty grown,Full six feet high of flesh and bone.Ri lol, lol, lay, etc.

Now this man to battle did go,The balls flew thick, and whistled so,There was one came straight and gave him a blow,And knocked off his arm above his elbow.

When the surgeon came to look at the woundA noted thief lay on the ground,Quite dead, but still he’d a perfect arm,So he sawed it off while it was warm.

Now this arm he spliced to our hero’s stump,And bound it fast, wasn’t he a trump?And in a short time it got well,As many of that brave corps can tell.

This man he turned out a thief,And was discharged for stealing beef,For with this cursed thief’s arm he got,He could let nothing be too heavy or hot.

Then up to London he did repair,To see if advice he could get there,And all the way that he did jog,The arm was at work, and found him in prog.

And when he got there he walked along,And strove to bustle through the throng,But the arm kept diving in every one’s pocket,He tried all he could, but he couldn’t stop it.

It stole him watches, gold and rings,And many other precious things,And one night he found he’d wealth in store,For Bandanna wipes, he had a score.

He robbed the Bank and Treasury,Likewise a Poet at the play,And, one night, ’tis really said,He stole a glass eye from an old woman’s head.

Now this arm had such a propensityFor stealing, that it could not stay,It robb’d a regiment of its baggage,Likewise a tailor of all his cabbage.

Long time he carried on the trade,Until he had a fortune made,But for a crime he was afterwards taken,And sent by the Judge to be hung up like bacon.

And when he came to the gallows tree,With the Parson’s watch he did make free,And as Jack Ketch was tying the knot,He pick’d his pocket of all he’d got.

Now this man, he was buried, as you may suppose,And after that the arm arose,And join’d a body-snatching knave,Who stole his master out of his grave.

A taleI tell now without any flam,In Holland there dwelt Mynheer von Clam,Who, every morning, said, I amThe richest merchant in Amsterdam.Ri too ral, etc.One day he had stuffed him as full as an egg,When a poor relation came to beg,But he kick’d him out without broaching a keg,And in kicking him out he broke his leg.A surgeon, the first in his vocation,Came, and made a long oration,He wanted a limb for anatomization,So he finished the job by amputation.Said Mynheer, said he, when he’d done his work,By your sharp knife, I lost one fork,But on two crutches I’ll never stalk,For I’ll have a beautiful leg of cork.An artist in Rotterdam ’twould seem,Had made cork legs, his study and theme:Each joint was as strong as an iron beam,The springs a compound of clockwork and steam.The leg was made and fitted tight,Inspection the artist did invite,The fine shape gave Mynheer delight,And he fixed it on and screwed it tight.He walked through squares, and past each shop,Of speed he went to the utmost top,Each step he took with a bound and a hop,And he found his leg he could not stop.Horror and fright were in his face,The neighbours thought he was running a race;He clung to a gas-post to stay his pace,But the leg wouldn’t stop, but kept on the chace.Then he call’d to some men with all his might,“Oh! stop this leg or I’m murdered quite.”But though they heard him aid invite,He, in less than a minute was out of sight.He ran o’er hill and dale, and plain,To ease his weary bones he’d fain;He threw himself down, but all in vain,The leg got up, and was off again.He walk’d of days and nights a score,Of Europe he had made the Tour,He died!—but though he was no more,The leg walked on the same as before.In Holland, sometimes it comes in sight,A skeleton on a cork leg tight:No cash did the artist’s skill requite,He never was paid, and it served him right.My tale I’ve told both plain and free,Of the rummest merchant that ever could be,Who never was buried, tho’ dead we see,And I’ve been singing his L E G.[29]

A taleI tell now without any flam,In Holland there dwelt Mynheer von Clam,Who, every morning, said, I amThe richest merchant in Amsterdam.Ri too ral, etc.

One day he had stuffed him as full as an egg,When a poor relation came to beg,But he kick’d him out without broaching a keg,And in kicking him out he broke his leg.

A surgeon, the first in his vocation,Came, and made a long oration,He wanted a limb for anatomization,So he finished the job by amputation.

Said Mynheer, said he, when he’d done his work,By your sharp knife, I lost one fork,But on two crutches I’ll never stalk,For I’ll have a beautiful leg of cork.

An artist in Rotterdam ’twould seem,Had made cork legs, his study and theme:Each joint was as strong as an iron beam,The springs a compound of clockwork and steam.

The leg was made and fitted tight,Inspection the artist did invite,The fine shape gave Mynheer delight,And he fixed it on and screwed it tight.

He walked through squares, and past each shop,Of speed he went to the utmost top,Each step he took with a bound and a hop,And he found his leg he could not stop.

Horror and fright were in his face,The neighbours thought he was running a race;He clung to a gas-post to stay his pace,But the leg wouldn’t stop, but kept on the chace.

Then he call’d to some men with all his might,“Oh! stop this leg or I’m murdered quite.”But though they heard him aid invite,He, in less than a minute was out of sight.

He ran o’er hill and dale, and plain,To ease his weary bones he’d fain;He threw himself down, but all in vain,The leg got up, and was off again.

He walk’d of days and nights a score,Of Europe he had made the Tour,He died!—but though he was no more,The leg walked on the same as before.

In Holland, sometimes it comes in sight,A skeleton on a cork leg tight:No cash did the artist’s skill requite,He never was paid, and it served him right.

My tale I’ve told both plain and free,Of the rummest merchant that ever could be,Who never was buried, tho’ dead we see,And I’ve been singing his L E G.[29]

Mrs. Bubbwas gay and free, fair, fat, and forty three,And blooming as a Peony in buxom May,The toast she long had been of Farringdon Within,And she fill’d the better half of a one horse chay.Mrs. Bubb said to her lord, “you can, Bubb, well afford,Whate’er a Common Councilman in prudence may;We’ve no brats to plague our lives, and the soap concern it thrives,Let us take a trip to Brighton in the one horse chay.”Mr. Bubb said to his wife, “now, I think upon’t, my life,’Tis three weeks, at least, to next boiling day;The dog days are set in, and London’s growing thin,So I’ll order out old Nobbs, and the one horse chay.”Now Nobbs, it must be told, was rather fat and old,Its colour was white, and it had been gray,He was round as a scot, and, when roundly whipt, would trot,Full five miles an hour in a one horse chay.When at Brighton they were hous’d, and had stuff’d and carous’d,O’er a bowl of arrack Punch, Mr. Bubb did say,“I’ve ascertained, my dear, the mode of dipping here,From the ostler who is cleaning up my one horse chay.You’re shut in a box, ill convenient as the stocks,And eighteen pence each time are obliged to pay;Court corruption here, says I, makes everything so high.And I wish I had come without my one horse chay.”“As I hope,” says she, “to thrive, ’tis flaying folks alive,The king and these extortioners are leagued, I say;’Tis encouraging of such, to go and pay so much,So we’ll set them at defiance with our one horse chay.Old Nobbs I’m sure and sartin, you may trust with gig or cart in,He takes every matter in a very easy way;He’ll stand like a post, while we dabble on the coast,And return back, and dress in our one horse chay.So out they drove, all dress’d, so gaily, in their best,And finding in their rambles, a nice little bay;They uncased at their leisure, paddled out at their pleasure,And left everything behind in their one horse chay.But while so snugly sure, that all things were secure,They flounced about like porpoises, or whales at play;Some young unlucky imps, who prowl’d about for shrimps,Stole up to reconoitre the one horse chay.Old Nobbs in quiet mood, was sleeping as he stood,(He might possibly be dreaming of his corn, or hay):Not a foot did he wag, as they whipt out every rag,And gutted all the contents of the one horse chay.When our pair were sous’d enough, and returning in their buff,Oh, there was the vengeance, and Old Nick to pay;Madam shrieked in consternation, Mr. Bubb he swore damnation.To find the empty state of the one horse chay.“Come, bundle in with me, we must squeeze for once,” says he,“And manage this here business, as best we may,We’ve no other way to choose, not a moment must we lose,Or the tide will float us off in our one horse chay.”So noses, sides, and knees, altogether they did squeeze,And pack’d in little compass, they trotted it away;As dismal as two dummies, head and hands stuck out like mummies,From beneath the little apron of the one horse chay.Mr. Bubb ge-upp’d in vain, and strove to jerk the rein,Nobbs found he had his option to work or play;So he wouldn’t mend his pace, though they fain would have run race,To escape the merry gazers at the one horse chay.Now, good people laugh your fill, and fancy if you will,(For I’m fairly out of breath, and have had my say;)The trouble and the rout, to wrap and get them out,When they drove to their lodgings in their one horse chay.

Mrs. Bubbwas gay and free, fair, fat, and forty three,And blooming as a Peony in buxom May,The toast she long had been of Farringdon Within,And she fill’d the better half of a one horse chay.

Mrs. Bubb said to her lord, “you can, Bubb, well afford,Whate’er a Common Councilman in prudence may;We’ve no brats to plague our lives, and the soap concern it thrives,Let us take a trip to Brighton in the one horse chay.”

Mr. Bubb said to his wife, “now, I think upon’t, my life,’Tis three weeks, at least, to next boiling day;The dog days are set in, and London’s growing thin,So I’ll order out old Nobbs, and the one horse chay.”

Now Nobbs, it must be told, was rather fat and old,Its colour was white, and it had been gray,He was round as a scot, and, when roundly whipt, would trot,Full five miles an hour in a one horse chay.

When at Brighton they were hous’d, and had stuff’d and carous’d,O’er a bowl of arrack Punch, Mr. Bubb did say,“I’ve ascertained, my dear, the mode of dipping here,From the ostler who is cleaning up my one horse chay.

You’re shut in a box, ill convenient as the stocks,And eighteen pence each time are obliged to pay;Court corruption here, says I, makes everything so high.And I wish I had come without my one horse chay.”

“As I hope,” says she, “to thrive, ’tis flaying folks alive,The king and these extortioners are leagued, I say;’Tis encouraging of such, to go and pay so much,So we’ll set them at defiance with our one horse chay.

Old Nobbs I’m sure and sartin, you may trust with gig or cart in,He takes every matter in a very easy way;He’ll stand like a post, while we dabble on the coast,And return back, and dress in our one horse chay.

So out they drove, all dress’d, so gaily, in their best,And finding in their rambles, a nice little bay;They uncased at their leisure, paddled out at their pleasure,And left everything behind in their one horse chay.

But while so snugly sure, that all things were secure,They flounced about like porpoises, or whales at play;Some young unlucky imps, who prowl’d about for shrimps,Stole up to reconoitre the one horse chay.

Old Nobbs in quiet mood, was sleeping as he stood,(He might possibly be dreaming of his corn, or hay):Not a foot did he wag, as they whipt out every rag,And gutted all the contents of the one horse chay.

When our pair were sous’d enough, and returning in their buff,Oh, there was the vengeance, and Old Nick to pay;Madam shrieked in consternation, Mr. Bubb he swore damnation.To find the empty state of the one horse chay.

“Come, bundle in with me, we must squeeze for once,” says he,“And manage this here business, as best we may,We’ve no other way to choose, not a moment must we lose,Or the tide will float us off in our one horse chay.”

So noses, sides, and knees, altogether they did squeeze,And pack’d in little compass, they trotted it away;As dismal as two dummies, head and hands stuck out like mummies,From beneath the little apron of the one horse chay.

Mr. Bubb ge-upp’d in vain, and strove to jerk the rein,Nobbs found he had his option to work or play;So he wouldn’t mend his pace, though they fain would have run race,To escape the merry gazers at the one horse chay.

Now, good people laugh your fill, and fancy if you will,(For I’m fairly out of breath, and have had my say;)The trouble and the rout, to wrap and get them out,When they drove to their lodgings in their one horse chay.

Somefolks may talk of sense, egad!Vot holds a lofty station;But, tho’ a dustman, I have hadA liberalhedication.And tho’ I never vent to school,Like many of my betters,A turnpike man, vot varnt no fool,He larnt me all my letters.

They calls me Adam Bell, ’tis clear,As Adam vos the fust man,And by a co-in-side-ance queer,Vy! I’m the fust of Dustmen!At sartin schools they makes boys write,Their Alphabets on sand, Sirs,So I thought dust vould do as vell,And larnt it out of hand, Sirs,Took in thePenny Magazine,[30]AndJohnson’s Dictionary,And all the Pe-ri-odi-cals,To make meliterary.My dawning genus fust did peep,Near Battle Bridge[31]’tis plain, Sirs,You recollect the cinder heap,Vot stood in Gray’s Inn Lane, Sirs?[32]’Twas there I studied pic-turesque,Vile I my bread vos yearnin’,And there inhalin’ the fresh breeze,[33]I sifted out my larnin.Then Mrs. Bell, ’twixt you and I,Vould melt a heart of stone, Sirs,To hear her, pussy’s wittals cry,In such a barrow tone, Sirs.My darters all take arter her,In grace and figure easy,They larns to sing, and as they’re fat,I has ’em taught byGrizi.Ve dines at four, and arter that,I smokes a mild Awanna,Or gives a lesson to the lad,Upon the grand pianna:Or vith the gals valk aquod-rille,Or takes a cup of corf-fee,Or, if I feels fatig’d or ill,I lounges on thesophy.Or arter dinner reads a page,Of Valter Scott, or Byron,Or Mr.Shiksparon the stage,Subjects none can tire on;At night ve toddles to the play,But not to gallery attic,Drury Lane’s the time o’ day,And quitearistocratic.I means to buy my eldest sonA commission in the Lancers,And make my darters, every one,Accomplished Hopra dancers.Great sculptors all conwarse with me,And call my taste diwine, Sirs,King George’sstattyat King’s Cross,[34]Vos built from my design, Sirs.And, ven I’m made a Member on,For that I means to try, Sirs,Mr. Gully fought his way,[35]And verefore shouldn’t I, Sirs.Yes, ven I sits in Parliment,In old Sir Steven’s College,I means to take, ’tis my intent,The taxes off of knowledge.

They calls me Adam Bell, ’tis clear,As Adam vos the fust man,And by a co-in-side-ance queer,Vy! I’m the fust of Dustmen!

At sartin schools they makes boys write,Their Alphabets on sand, Sirs,So I thought dust vould do as vell,And larnt it out of hand, Sirs,Took in thePenny Magazine,[30]AndJohnson’s Dictionary,And all the Pe-ri-odi-cals,To make meliterary.

My dawning genus fust did peep,Near Battle Bridge[31]’tis plain, Sirs,You recollect the cinder heap,Vot stood in Gray’s Inn Lane, Sirs?[32]’Twas there I studied pic-turesque,Vile I my bread vos yearnin’,And there inhalin’ the fresh breeze,[33]I sifted out my larnin.

Then Mrs. Bell, ’twixt you and I,Vould melt a heart of stone, Sirs,To hear her, pussy’s wittals cry,In such a barrow tone, Sirs.My darters all take arter her,In grace and figure easy,They larns to sing, and as they’re fat,I has ’em taught byGrizi.

Ve dines at four, and arter that,I smokes a mild Awanna,Or gives a lesson to the lad,Upon the grand pianna:Or vith the gals valk aquod-rille,Or takes a cup of corf-fee,Or, if I feels fatig’d or ill,I lounges on thesophy.

Or arter dinner reads a page,Of Valter Scott, or Byron,Or Mr.Shiksparon the stage,Subjects none can tire on;At night ve toddles to the play,But not to gallery attic,Drury Lane’s the time o’ day,And quitearistocratic.

I means to buy my eldest sonA commission in the Lancers,And make my darters, every one,Accomplished Hopra dancers.Great sculptors all conwarse with me,And call my taste diwine, Sirs,King George’sstattyat King’s Cross,[34]Vos built from my design, Sirs.

And, ven I’m made a Member on,For that I means to try, Sirs,Mr. Gully fought his way,[35]And verefore shouldn’t I, Sirs.Yes, ven I sits in Parliment,In old Sir Steven’s College,I means to take, ’tis my intent,The taxes off of knowledge.

They call me Adam Bell, ’tis true,’Cause Adam was the fust man,I’m sure its very plain to you,I’m alitterary dustman.

I’mSammy Slap, the Bill Sticker, and you must all agree, Sirs,I stick to bus’ness like a trump, and bus’ness sticks to me, Sirs,The low folks call me Plasterer, and they desarves a banging,Becos, genteely speaking, vhy, my trade is Paper-Hanging.

With my paste! paste! paste!All the world is puffing, so I paste! paste! paste!Round Nelson’s statty, Charing Cross, vhen any thing’s the go, Sirs,You’ll always find me at my post, a sticking up the Posters,I’ve hung Macready twelve feet high,—and though it may seem funny,Day after day against the valls, I’ve plastered Mrs. Honey!Now often, in the vay of trade, and I don’t care a farden,Arter I have been veil paid to hang for Common Garden,Old Drury Lane has called me in, with jealousy to cover ’em,And sent me round vith their own bills, to go and plaster over ’em.In search of houses, old and new, I’m always on the caper,And werry kindly gives ’em all, a coat or two of paper;I think I’ve kivered all the valls round London, though I preach it,If they’d let me kiver old St. Paul’s, so help me Bob, I’d reach it.I’m not like some in our trade,—they desarve their jackets laced, Sirs,They stick up half their master’s bills, and sells the rest for vaste, Sirs,Now, honesty’s best policy, vith a good name to retire vith,So vot I doesn’t use myself, my old gal lights the fire vith!I’m proud to say there’s Helen Tree, the stage’s great adorner,I’ve had the honour of posting her in every hole and corner,And Helen Faucit—bless her eyes! ve use her pretty freely,And paste’s Madam Vestris bang atop of Mr. Keeley!Sometimes I’m jobbing for the Church, vith Charitable Sermons,And sometimes for theatres, vith the English and the Germans;To me, in course, no odds it is, as long as I’m a vinner,Vhether I works for a Saint, or hangs up for a Sinner.The paste I use, I makes myself, and I’ll stick to this, however,That vhen my bills, I’ve put ’em up, they’ll face both vind and veather,I comes the fancy work, though they’re up, mind, in a twinkle,I never tucks the corners in, nor leaves a blessed wrinkle,Then, surely, you vill all allow, I am a man of taste, Sirs,I arn’t no Pastry-cook, although I deals in puffs and paste, Sirs,Vhenever you may have a job, to show how I desarve you,About the town through thick and thin, I’ll brush along to sarve you!

With my paste! paste! paste!All the world is puffing, so I paste! paste! paste!

Round Nelson’s statty, Charing Cross, vhen any thing’s the go, Sirs,You’ll always find me at my post, a sticking up the Posters,I’ve hung Macready twelve feet high,—and though it may seem funny,Day after day against the valls, I’ve plastered Mrs. Honey!

Now often, in the vay of trade, and I don’t care a farden,Arter I have been veil paid to hang for Common Garden,Old Drury Lane has called me in, with jealousy to cover ’em,And sent me round vith their own bills, to go and plaster over ’em.

In search of houses, old and new, I’m always on the caper,And werry kindly gives ’em all, a coat or two of paper;I think I’ve kivered all the valls round London, though I preach it,If they’d let me kiver old St. Paul’s, so help me Bob, I’d reach it.

I’m not like some in our trade,—they desarve their jackets laced, Sirs,They stick up half their master’s bills, and sells the rest for vaste, Sirs,Now, honesty’s best policy, vith a good name to retire vith,So vot I doesn’t use myself, my old gal lights the fire vith!

I’m proud to say there’s Helen Tree, the stage’s great adorner,I’ve had the honour of posting her in every hole and corner,And Helen Faucit—bless her eyes! ve use her pretty freely,And paste’s Madam Vestris bang atop of Mr. Keeley!

Sometimes I’m jobbing for the Church, vith Charitable Sermons,And sometimes for theatres, vith the English and the Germans;To me, in course, no odds it is, as long as I’m a vinner,Vhether I works for a Saint, or hangs up for a Sinner.

The paste I use, I makes myself, and I’ll stick to this, however,That vhen my bills, I’ve put ’em up, they’ll face both vind and veather,I comes the fancy work, though they’re up, mind, in a twinkle,I never tucks the corners in, nor leaves a blessed wrinkle,

Then, surely, you vill all allow, I am a man of taste, Sirs,I arn’t no Pastry-cook, although I deals in puffs and paste, Sirs,Vhenever you may have a job, to show how I desarve you,About the town through thick and thin, I’ll brush along to sarve you!

Whata queer set of creatures we are, I declare,What one person likes, why another can’t bear,It was always a plan when I went to school,To like everything good, like the Lord Mayor’s fool.Some like to look thin, some like to look fat,Some like to see this, some like to see that,But, if you’ll be silent, and listen to me,I’ll just tell you the things that I don’t like to see.

You may call me a quiz, you may call me a pry,But I cannot bear things that look queer to the eyeIfyoulike to see them, it’s nothing to me,I tell you there are things I don’t like to see.Now I don’t like to see little boys with cigars,They’re better at home with their pas and their masI don’t like to see folks in misery sunk,And I don’t like to see a teetotaller drunk.I don’t like to see ugly women use paint,Nor a grey headed sinner pretend he’s a saint,Nor a swell, in a dicky[36]tied over a rag,Nor a fop with mustachios who’s not worth a mag.I don’t like to see ladies picking their gums,Nor a boy at sixteen always sucking his thumbs,I don’t like to see women drink to excess,Nor a girl in black stockings and white muslin dress,I don’t like to see a coat fit like a sack,Nor a man pinch his belly for the sake of his back,I don’t like to see a man whopping his moke,It shows that his brotherly feeling’s a joke.I don’t like to see frosty weather in May,Nor a man wear his church-going tile every day,I don’t like to see people sulk at their meals,Nor a girl with great taters stuck out at her heels;I don’t like to see people shooting the moon,[37]Nor a chap buttoned up on a hot afternoon,I don’t like to see peelers drunk on their beat,Nor young ladies bustles fall off in the street.I don’t like to see people pay twice for once,Nor a man about thirty, a thick-headed dunce;I don’t like to see folks eat more than their whack,Nor a swell with his hair just a yard down his back,I don’t like to see yellow wipes round the throat,Nor a man wipe his nose on the sleeve of his coat,I don’t like to see a pretty girl pout,Nor young ladies sending their rags up the spout.I don’t like to see women drest Fal de ral,Nor a boy about twelve, sticking up to a gal;I don’t like to see parsons go to the play,Nor a swell in white ducks, on a pouring wet day,Now I don’t like to see sorrowful faces,And I hope another night, you’ll here take your places;For I don’t like to see empty streets, I declare,And I think that my pocket agrees with me there.

You may call me a quiz, you may call me a pry,But I cannot bear things that look queer to the eyeIfyoulike to see them, it’s nothing to me,I tell you there are things I don’t like to see.

Now I don’t like to see little boys with cigars,They’re better at home with their pas and their masI don’t like to see folks in misery sunk,And I don’t like to see a teetotaller drunk.I don’t like to see ugly women use paint,Nor a grey headed sinner pretend he’s a saint,Nor a swell, in a dicky[36]tied over a rag,Nor a fop with mustachios who’s not worth a mag.

I don’t like to see ladies picking their gums,Nor a boy at sixteen always sucking his thumbs,I don’t like to see women drink to excess,Nor a girl in black stockings and white muslin dress,I don’t like to see a coat fit like a sack,Nor a man pinch his belly for the sake of his back,I don’t like to see a man whopping his moke,It shows that his brotherly feeling’s a joke.

I don’t like to see frosty weather in May,Nor a man wear his church-going tile every day,I don’t like to see people sulk at their meals,Nor a girl with great taters stuck out at her heels;I don’t like to see people shooting the moon,[37]Nor a chap buttoned up on a hot afternoon,I don’t like to see peelers drunk on their beat,Nor young ladies bustles fall off in the street.

I don’t like to see people pay twice for once,Nor a man about thirty, a thick-headed dunce;I don’t like to see folks eat more than their whack,Nor a swell with his hair just a yard down his back,I don’t like to see yellow wipes round the throat,Nor a man wipe his nose on the sleeve of his coat,I don’t like to see a pretty girl pout,Nor young ladies sending their rags up the spout.

I don’t like to see women drest Fal de ral,Nor a boy about twelve, sticking up to a gal;I don’t like to see parsons go to the play,Nor a swell in white ducks, on a pouring wet day,Now I don’t like to see sorrowful faces,And I hope another night, you’ll here take your places;For I don’t like to see empty streets, I declare,And I think that my pocket agrees with me there.

TwoIsraelite brothers in New York once dwelt,And, in all kind of Merchandize freely they dealt,They were thought to be wealthy, between me and you,And each brother was really as rich as a Jew.No creditor e’er went away from their door,Till death call’d on Moses to settle his score;No mortal can ever evade such a call,So Moses, he slept, Sirs, his last sleep of all.Then Isaac, his brother, exclaimed, lucky elf,All his goods and his monies belong to myself,Ah! but stop, dere’s his will, I must just read it through,To see what poor Moses would have me to do.The Will it ran thus, when I shall cease to live,All my cash, and my goods, to my brother I give,Upon this condition, that hard he shall toilTo bury my body in real English Soil.Isaac tried every Captain, but could not prevail,For none would agree with the body to sail,But, not to be baulked, he set quickly to work,And embarked it at last as a barrel of pork.Mo was cut up in pieces with chopper and knife,He had never been cut up so much in his life,Isaac wrote to his agent to tell him his plan,And begged of him to bury the poor pickled man.Some months after this, as he walked on the wharf,He met with the Captain, a yellow fac’d dwarf,Vell, goot Captain, he cried, looking steadfastly roundYou delivered my barrel, I hope, safe and sound?Said the Captain, Friend Isaac, I’m sorry to say,That during our trip, we were near cast away,When in sight of old England, we lay a sheer hulk,As provisions were scarce, we were forced to break bulk.Preak pulk! roar’d out Isaac, you’re worse than a Turk,Put, surely, you ne’er proke my parrel of pork?Indeed, but we did, cried the Captain, don’t huff,For I’ll pay a good price, though ’twas devilish tough.Ach! mein Gott! cried poor Isaac, as I am a sinner,You have eaten my poor proder Moses for dinner;Your brother! why zounds! then myself and my crew,Have feasted three days on a piece of tough Jew.But come, now, my friend Isaac, to finish this work,I’ll pay you for your brother, as if he’d been pork;No, no, replied Isaac, though we cheat one another,Our law won’t permit us to sell our own prother.In his purse back, the Captain was putting his gold,Which Isaac, espying, cried, Goot Captain, hold,Though I can’t touch the cash, for that proder of mineYou can pay me, you know, for the parrel and prine.

TwoIsraelite brothers in New York once dwelt,And, in all kind of Merchandize freely they dealt,They were thought to be wealthy, between me and you,And each brother was really as rich as a Jew.

No creditor e’er went away from their door,Till death call’d on Moses to settle his score;No mortal can ever evade such a call,So Moses, he slept, Sirs, his last sleep of all.

Then Isaac, his brother, exclaimed, lucky elf,All his goods and his monies belong to myself,Ah! but stop, dere’s his will, I must just read it through,To see what poor Moses would have me to do.

The Will it ran thus, when I shall cease to live,All my cash, and my goods, to my brother I give,Upon this condition, that hard he shall toilTo bury my body in real English Soil.

Isaac tried every Captain, but could not prevail,For none would agree with the body to sail,But, not to be baulked, he set quickly to work,And embarked it at last as a barrel of pork.

Mo was cut up in pieces with chopper and knife,He had never been cut up so much in his life,Isaac wrote to his agent to tell him his plan,And begged of him to bury the poor pickled man.

Some months after this, as he walked on the wharf,He met with the Captain, a yellow fac’d dwarf,Vell, goot Captain, he cried, looking steadfastly roundYou delivered my barrel, I hope, safe and sound?

Said the Captain, Friend Isaac, I’m sorry to say,That during our trip, we were near cast away,When in sight of old England, we lay a sheer hulk,As provisions were scarce, we were forced to break bulk.

Preak pulk! roar’d out Isaac, you’re worse than a Turk,Put, surely, you ne’er proke my parrel of pork?Indeed, but we did, cried the Captain, don’t huff,For I’ll pay a good price, though ’twas devilish tough.

Ach! mein Gott! cried poor Isaac, as I am a sinner,You have eaten my poor proder Moses for dinner;Your brother! why zounds! then myself and my crew,Have feasted three days on a piece of tough Jew.

But come, now, my friend Isaac, to finish this work,I’ll pay you for your brother, as if he’d been pork;No, no, replied Isaac, though we cheat one another,Our law won’t permit us to sell our own prother.

In his purse back, the Captain was putting his gold,Which Isaac, espying, cried, Goot Captain, hold,Though I can’t touch the cash, for that proder of mineYou can pay me, you know, for the parrel and prine.

Inthe “thirties” of this century, this was one of the most popular of street songs, and is well worth reproducing among the humorous ballads, as it is utterly unknown to the present generation.

Allround my hat I vears a green villow,All round my hat for a twelvemonth and a day,If any one should ax it, the reason vy I vears it,Tell them that my true love is far, far away.’Twas going of my rounds in the streets I did meet her,Oh, I thought she vas an hangel just come down from the sky,(Spoken)She’d a nice wegitable countenance, Turnip nose, Redish cheeks, and Carroty hair.And I never heard a woice more louder and more sweeter,Vhen she cried, buy my Primroses, my Primroses come buy.(Spoken)Here’s your fine Colliflowers!Oh, my love she vas fair, and my love she vas kind, too,And cruel vas the judge vot my love had to try,(Spoken)Here’s your precious Turnips!For thieving vas a thing she never vas inclined to,But he sent my love across the seas, far, far away.(Spoken)Here’s your hard hearted Cabbages!For seven long years my love and I are parted,For seven long years, my love is bound to stay,(Spoken)’Tis a precious long time ’fore I does any trade to-day.Bad luck to the chap vot’d ever be false hearted,Oh, I’d love my love for ever, though she’s far away.(Spoken)Here’s your nice heads of Sallary!There is some young men as is so precious deceitful,A coaxing of the young girls they wish to lead astray,(Spoken)Here’s your Valnuts, crack ’em and try ’em, a shillin’ a hundred!As soon as they deceive ’em, so cruelly-ly they leave ’em,And they never sighs nor sorrows, ven they’re far avay.(Spoken)Do you want any Hinguns to day, marm?Oh, I bought my love a ring, on the werry day she started,Vich I gave her as a token all to remember me,(Spoken)Bless her heyes.And vhen she does come back, oh, ve’ll never more be parted,But ve’ll marry, and be happy, oh, for ever and a day.(Spoken)Here’s your fine spring Radishes!

Allround my hat I vears a green villow,All round my hat for a twelvemonth and a day,If any one should ax it, the reason vy I vears it,Tell them that my true love is far, far away.

’Twas going of my rounds in the streets I did meet her,Oh, I thought she vas an hangel just come down from the sky,(Spoken)She’d a nice wegitable countenance, Turnip nose, Redish cheeks, and Carroty hair.And I never heard a woice more louder and more sweeter,Vhen she cried, buy my Primroses, my Primroses come buy.(Spoken)Here’s your fine Colliflowers!Oh, my love she vas fair, and my love she vas kind, too,And cruel vas the judge vot my love had to try,(Spoken)Here’s your precious Turnips!For thieving vas a thing she never vas inclined to,But he sent my love across the seas, far, far away.(Spoken)Here’s your hard hearted Cabbages!

For seven long years my love and I are parted,For seven long years, my love is bound to stay,(Spoken)’Tis a precious long time ’fore I does any trade to-day.Bad luck to the chap vot’d ever be false hearted,Oh, I’d love my love for ever, though she’s far away.(Spoken)Here’s your nice heads of Sallary!

There is some young men as is so precious deceitful,A coaxing of the young girls they wish to lead astray,(Spoken)Here’s your Valnuts, crack ’em and try ’em, a shillin’ a hundred!As soon as they deceive ’em, so cruelly-ly they leave ’em,And they never sighs nor sorrows, ven they’re far avay.(Spoken)Do you want any Hinguns to day, marm?

Oh, I bought my love a ring, on the werry day she started,Vich I gave her as a token all to remember me,(Spoken)Bless her heyes.And vhen she does come back, oh, ve’ll never more be parted,But ve’ll marry, and be happy, oh, for ever and a day.(Spoken)Here’s your fine spring Radishes!

InLunnon town each day, strange sayings will be springing,But, if you list to me, a new one I’ll be singing,As you go through the town, the people will be funning,One cries out, “Put it down, here’s the man a-coming!”’Twas only t’other day, as sure as I’m a sinner,A leg of pork I bought, to have a slap up dinner;When, half way down the street, a young scamp came by, running,Says he “Guv’ner, drop that meat, here’s the man a-coming!”Young married folks, I fear, to extremes often dash on,They’re always in a fright, through studying the fashion;Each day with fear and dread, the tradesmen they are shunning,“Jem, get under the bed, here’s the tally man a-coming!”There’s lots of ups and downs, and lots of rummy dodgings,But I do it quite brown, in taking furnish’d lodgings:I own I’m very poor, to pay there is no fun in,So I always bolt the door, when I hear the landlord coming!It’s pleasant, in this place, to see your smiling faces,And, gents, too, I presume, you’re in your proper places;Now, there’s one stands there so sly, I know he’s very cunning,I say, “Mind what you’re at, here’s the man a-coming!”

’Twas only t’other day, as sure as I’m a sinner,A leg of pork I bought, to have a slap up dinner;When, half way down the street, a young scamp came by, running,Says he “Guv’ner, drop that meat, here’s the man a-coming!”

Young married folks, I fear, to extremes often dash on,They’re always in a fright, through studying the fashion;Each day with fear and dread, the tradesmen they are shunning,“Jem, get under the bed, here’s the tally man a-coming!”

There’s lots of ups and downs, and lots of rummy dodgings,But I do it quite brown, in taking furnish’d lodgings:I own I’m very poor, to pay there is no fun in,So I always bolt the door, when I hear the landlord coming!

It’s pleasant, in this place, to see your smiling faces,And, gents, too, I presume, you’re in your proper places;Now, there’s one stands there so sly, I know he’s very cunning,I say, “Mind what you’re at, here’s the man a-coming!”

Back to Index Next