“Hooray!” they shouted, “a chorus! let’s have the chorus—there ought to be a chorus—thirteen bob a week!”
“Now, gentlemen, the chorus if you please,” said Harry; “give it mouth, sir!”
Then sang Bumpkin—
“O ’edgin, ditchin, that’s the geaam,
All in the open air;
The poor man’s health is all his wealth,
But wealth without a care!
Chorus.
Then shout hurrah for Church and State
Though ’eretics may scoff,
The devil is our head Constable,
To take the willins off.
Give me the man that’s poor and strong,
Hard working and content;
Who looks on onger as his lot,
In Heaven’s wise purpose sent.
Who looks on riches as a snare
To ketch the worldly wise;
And good roast mutton as a dodge,
To blind rich people’s eyes.
Chorus.
Give me the man that labours hard
From mornin’ until night,
And looks at errins as a treat
And bacon a delight.
O ’edgin, ditchin, diggin drains,
And emptyin pool and dyke,
It beats your galloppin to ’ounds,
Your ball-rooms and the like.
Chorus.