You know it is his boast, mother, that in bricks all red and white,
He means to raise, on what appears an eligible ground site,
A palace for which Parliament will very gladly pay—
When the boilers are carted away, mother, the boilers are carted away.
The turnstile and refreshment rooms, umbrella man, and charts,
The chimney pots, paints, plaster casts, and analysed jam tarts,
Yes, all are gone! No longer art her triumphs can display,
For they've carted her boilers away, mother, they've carted her boilers away.
The cabs they come and go, mother, the omnibuses pass,
The public scarce believe their eyes; they think the thing a farce,