Were put in the rag scale to get them a dinner.
Now where’s the old coachman with his powdered wig?
Who drove the state carriage so noble and big?
If I tell you the truth, it will break your heart,
They have sold the old coach to make a muck cart,
They’re stopping all pleasure, except for the swells,
In the course of time, there’ll be no pretty girls;
No pleasure for children, but you can let them know,
That a thing of the past is the Lord Mayor’s Show.
For in the year ’67, how funny you know,