There’s a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes,
For the Rector don’t live on his living like other Christian sort of folks;
There’s a barber once a week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls,
And a window with two feminine men’s heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls;
There’s a butcher, and a carpenter’s, and a plumber, and a small green grocer’s, and a baker,
But he won’t bake on a Sunday; and there’s a sexton that’s a coal merchant besides, and an undertaker;
And a toy-shop, but not a whole one, for a village can’t compare with the London shops;
One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout’s balls, and the other sells malt and hops.
And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy, not to be a bit behind her betters,
Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it’s the post-office for letters.