And s'pose, ven I gits to my stand, the book or purse I find;
It isn't mine, it's werry true, but I don't know it's his'n;
And there comes claws eleven, and claws a 'onest man to pris'n!
Then see the "rates" in Sheddle A, vy vot a shame it is
To drag two fat uns near a mile, and only git a tiz!
Now s'pose a twelve-stun fare comes up and takes me off the rank,
And makes me drive him, pretty sharp, from Smiffield to the Bank;
I civ'lly axes eighteenpence, and cheap, too, for the job—
He sticks into me claws seventeen, and fines me forty bob!
Ve're chaffed and jeered by every cove, by slaveys on a bus;