Because, genteelly speaking, why my trade is paper-hanging,
Chorus.—With my paste, paste, paste,
Oh, all the world is puffing,
So I paste, paste, paste.
All ’round about the city now, when anything’s the go, sirs,
You’ll always find me at my post, a sticking up the posters;
I’ve hung Ned Forrest twelve feet high, and did it, sirs, quite easy;
And I’ve been engaged, too, lately, both by Mario and Grisi.
Chorus.—With my paste, &c.
I’m not like some in our trade, they deserve their jackets laced, sirs,