He’d a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair;
And his trousers considering not very much patch’d, and red plush, they was once his Father’s best pair.
His shirt, it’s very lucky I’d got washing in the tub, or that might have gone with the rest;
But he’d got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast.
He’d a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sew’d in, and not quite so much jagg’d at the brim.
With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and you’ll know by that if it’s him.
Except being so well dress’d my mind would misgive, some old beggar woman in want of an orphan,
Had borrow’d the child to go a begging with, but I’d rather see him laid out in his coffin!
Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys! I’ll break every bone of ’em I come near,
Go home—you’re spilling the porter—go home Tommy Jones, go along home with your beer.