THE DRAY QUEEN.
(A Sequel to last May-day's Carol, by Our Own Poet Lorry-ate, Author of "I'm A-float," &c.)
IF you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the carters' cheer;
It is the last of the turn-outs that I may ever see,
For Robin he lays me low with a kick—and thinks no more of me.
Last May we had a reg'lar spree, we had such a jolly day,
And Robin, who drove a brewer's cart, he made me Queen o' the Dray;
And we danced and sung and got mad drunk on Walker's sixpenny hops,
Till the Charleys come at the row we made, and every one of us cops.
And lugs us off to chokee, mother, and keeps us there all night,
As drunken and disorderlies—both women and men were tight—
And Raffles, the beak, next morning, was in a terrible way—
Ten shillin' we had to pay, mother, ten shillin' and costs to pay.
And in default of payment,—our cash we had spent in ale,—
That Raffles he gave us all a week within sweet Walton gaol,
Where soon we learnt to pick oakum (the skin's off my fingers still),
And Robin did "Sich a gettin' upstairs" upon the revolving mill.
* * * * *
The end of it was, he axed me, as I'd been Queen of his Dray,
If I would marry a scavenger as never did work by day,
And though his wages was but low—a matter o' twenty-five bob—
Before the month o' May was out we settled the blessed job.
At first my Robin was very kind and gentle, so to speak,
He never got drunk and kicked me—not more than twice a week,
And of his weekly wages, no matter what else he did,
He never would spend on pay-nights more than eighteen bob or a quid.
* * * * *
And after that—it's a month ago—my Robin got much worse,
'Twould make your hair just stand on end to hear him swear and curse,
He never gets drunk as he used to do—that's once or twice in a week—
He's never properly sober, on me all his rage he'll wreak.
When he comes home of a morning, it's rarely he goes to bed,
He takes to drinking about all day, and hammerin' me instead,
And well I know my husband's hand, it's weight I often feel,
I wouldn't be lyin' so low, mother, if not for my husband's heel.
The brewers' carts and the scavengers' to-morrow will be gay,
The horses all with ribands decked will walk in grand array,
The Corporation carters and their wives will have a spread,
And get their annual dinner 'neath the great Haymarket shed.
* * * * *
Good-night, dear mother, call me before the day is born;
I'd like to see the carters a-marching in the morn;
The pubs, are closing early, very early, mother dear,
So, if you've got any coppers left, just go for a quart of beer!