Mutton Pies! Mutton Pies! Mutton Pies,
Come feast your eyes with my Mutton Pies.

Who’ll Buy my Mutton Pies?

Through London’s long and busy streets,
This honest woman cries,
To every little boy she meets,
Who’ll buy my Mutton Pies?

Please to Pity the Poor Old Fiddler!
Pity the Poor Old Blind Fiddler!

The Poor Old Fiddler.

The poor old Fiddler goes his rounds,
Along with old Dog Tray;
The East of London mostly bounds
His journeys for the day.