Our werry watermen are now our masters top of us.
A po-lice chap may poke his dirty mug into my cab,
And, if he says it isn't clean, my license he may grab;
And arterwards, if I but "use" my own cab, I must pay,
Says claws the third, a penalty of sixty bob a day!!!
Vy, haven't Cabmen feelings? Then vot right 'ave you to gash em?
They aren't 'osses, vich, we know, all likes us for to lash em.
If we are druv about all day from this to t'other station,
Our fares screw'd down to sich a pint as 's werry near starwation,
Our parson'l liberty consarned, and bilked of all our priggings,