'Cos there ain't much chance for cleanness, or for comfort, when he comes.
He's as 'appy in the dirt, gents, as a blowfly or a 'og;
Or poor Paddy in his tater-patch alongside of a bog;
He'd chop up 'is doors and winders for a fire to 'ot his lush,
Don't care a 'ang for decency, and never raised a blush.
But, arter my hexperience—and I've 'ad some down our court—
I believe that—fair at bottom—it's the Slum as makes his sort.
Anyways I'm pooty certain, if we'd got more light and space,
And were not jammed up together in a filthy, ill-drained place;
If the sunlight could but see us, and the public and the cops,