I wonder what they do put in
The faggots and the sausages?—
Cold donkeys’ dung, says Biddy Flinn,
Candle ends and rotten cabbages.
The butchers now are gone to pot,
Crying, oh! such times was never,
They lay their heads on a greasy block,
Saying, we are done for ever.
They cannot cry, who’ll buy! who’ll buy!
Their marrow bones are aching,