You look at a rank at a time fares is off, and the nosebags is on, and you find the chaps all
A 'anging around with their 'ands in their pockets, 'ard by their pet pub, or close under a wall.
They're looking about 'em, and passing the patter, and doubling sharp up at a wheeze or a joke;
They may look on the lollop, but not on the sulk, nor they don't 'ang their 'eads like a ill-tempered moke.
But life's not all laugh with 'em give you my word; summer's not all a beano, while winter is worse,
And many a chap must drive 'ard through a sleet-storm when fur better fitted for blankets and nurse.
Your fare snugged inside may be grumpy and growly, a crack in the winder will give 'im the 'ump;
But you mustn't cuss, though you're soaked to your socks, and the rheumatiz racks your poor back at each bump.
Stillsomever to take the lot smilin' 's our motter, though sometimes the smile sets a mossel askew.
Old "Tommy the Thumper"'s just left me. Queer egg! Sort o' parson one time, if all stories is true.