And made fig leaf togs, A No. 1,
He was a regular Flint, and never a Dung,
It was Adam, the first of the tailors.
What we shall do, I do not know,
If the men to work they will not go,
We shall walk about just like scarecrows,
Thro’ the strike of the Journeymen Tailors.
We shall be all rags and jags,
And only fit for the ragman’s bags,
Or to make a sign for some rag shop,