To have one, I’ll just go a week without grub,
Or else knock out the staves of our big washing-tub.
There was an old lady went down through the Strand,
She was linked in the arms of a dashing young man,
Her hooped petticoat caught a coal-heaver’s clothes.
Down he went like a donkey wop bang on his nose.
The lasses that wander the streets in the dark,
Swear they cannot get custom unless they’re smart,
If their skin is as black as a Welch Billy Goat,
They must have a wonderful hooped petticoat.