With the recent Cab Act in thy hand, and tear-drops in thine eye,
Try not to overcharge us now, or make our pockets bleed;
You cannot do it now again—thou’rt sold, my man, indeed
Fret not with that impatient cough: if surlily inclined,
The nearest station is the place at which redress to find;
The magistrates have now the power to mulct thee of thy gold,
Or send thee off to jail, my friend. Thou’rt sold, my man, thou’rt sold.
Do they ill-use thee, Cabman? No! I’m sure it cannot be;
You that have bullied half the world, and humbugged even me.
And yet, if haply thou’rt done up, and for thee we should yearn,