| Bring out your dust, the dustman cries, Whilst ringing of his bell: If the wind blows, pray guard your eyes, To keep them clear and well. I am very glad ’tis not my luck To get my bread by carting muck; I am sure I never could be made To work at such a dirty trade. Hold, my fine spark, not so fast, Some proud folks get a fall at last; And you, young gentleman, I say, May be a Dustman, one fine day. All working folks, who seldom play, Yet get their bread in a honest way, Though not to wealth or honours born, Deserve respect instead of scorn. Such rude contempt they merit less Than those who live in idleness; Who are less useful, I’m afraid, Than I, the Dustman, am by trade. |
The Birdman.
| Have pity, have pity on poor little birds, Who only make music, and cannot sing words; And think, when you listen, we mean by our strain, O! let us fly home to our woodlands again. Our dear woody coverts, and thickets so green, Too close for the school-boy to rustle between; No foot to alarm us, no sorrow, no rain, O! let us fly home to our woodlands again. There perched on the branches that wave to the wind, No more in this pitiless prison confined, How gaily we’ll tune up our merriest strain, If once we get home to our woodlands again. |
Buy a Door-Mat or a Table-Mat.
| Stooping o’er the ragged heath, Thick with thorns and briers keen, Or the weedy bank beneath, Have I cut my rushes green; While the broom and spiked thorn Pearly drops of dew adorn. Sometimes across the heath I wind, Where scarce a human face is seen, Wandering marshy spots to find, Where to cut my rushes green; Here and there, with weary tread, Working for a piece of bread. Then my little child and I Plat and weave them, as you see; Pray my lady, pray do buy, You can’t have better than of me; For never, surely were there seen Prettier mats of rushes green. |