And the scenes you shall see “Down East,” “Down East.”
Whitechapel has a road, where many a night has flowed
The blood from knife or goad of a goodly beast,
But down the alley’s gloom, in a miserable room,
A woman’s met her doom—“Down East,” “Down East.”
In a miserable shed, with an old rug for a bed,
As the dreary days on sped, her want increased,
And he who should have thought of the famine that he wrought,
Had just another “quartern” bought “Down East,” “Down East.”
He was of that wild drunken crew that prowl when the day is new,