and—
I'm sitting in my lit—tle room,
It measures six by six;
The work-house wall is opposite,
I've counted all the bricks!
“Give us a chorus, Jimmy!”
Jimmy does, giving his head a short, jerky nod for nearly every word, and describing a circle round his crown—as if he were stirring a pint of hot tea—with his forefinger, at the end of every line:
Hall!—Round!—Me—Hat!
I wore a weepin' willer!
Jimmy is a Cockney.
“Now then, boys!”
Hall—round—me hat!
How many old diggers remember it?
And: