(Rotherhithe)
My man fell in, when he was drunk;
They’d thrown him out o’ the “King’s Head.”
From Wapping stairs he fell, and sunk.
He was my man; he’s dead.
On the cold slab, a sight to see,
They’ve laid him out—poor handsome chap—
In Rotherhithe’s new mortuary.
His head should dent my lap,
But I mayn’t warm him where he lies,