An’ the fake an’ the cadger find blameliss repose.
For a double or single you settles the boss,
An’ you dumps down your coppers an’ goes for your doss;
Though if turn out you won’t when your time’s fairly sped,
They’ve a ’abit of lettin’ you down by the ’ead,
An’ a bump on your Barnet you commonly keep
All the day hafter leavin’ the Garden o’ Sleep.
Sleep! sleep! Never mind things wot creep!
Sleep, my dossy ones, sleep!
If you’ve ’tecs on your track there’s but foppence to pay,