For I was born, was born in the “Royal Mail.”
The roads were rough, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born,
The wind it whistled, the sign-board swung,
The leaders jobled, and out they flung,
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the coachman’s child.
I have lived since then on ale and gin,
Full fifty summers and not grown thin,
With a coach to run and a team to drive,