With horse and saddle like a queen and boa like a bull,
In their hand a flashy parasol, and on their face a veil,
And a bustle nearly seven times as big as a milking pail.
The nobles from the pockets of John Bull are all well paid;
Sometimes you hardly know the lady from the servant maid,
For now they are so very proud, silk stockings on their legs,
And every step they take you think they walk on pigeon’s eggs.
The tradesman he can hardly pay his rent and keep his home,
And the labourer has eighteen pence a day for breaking stones,
In former days the farmer rode a donkey or a mule,