Punch.
CARTED AWAY.
A Farewell Ode to the Brompton Boilers.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,
There's a work I wouldn't miss for worlds, a sight my heart does cheer:
Well, I know you'll not believe, mother, a word of what I say;
But they're carting the boilers away, mother, they're carting the boilers away.
There's many a black eye, of course, a moral one I mean,
Has been exchanged about them, for many a fight they've seen;