And he sez to this lady, so grand for to see,
‘My pies, mum, are meant for sitch people as me,
For poor cabbies and sitch; not for folks of degree,’
And she jest sez, ‘O fie!
Hand me quickly a pie,
Or I’ll cry.’
Singing hey, ho! ’ot pies, all ’ot!”
I spare the reader the remaining six verses of this delectable song. The company joined in the chorus with the full force of their lungs, and so exhilarated the fat vocalist, that at the end of the second verse he pushed away his chair, and folding his arms on his breast, actually danced an accompaniment to the words, amid shrieks of laughter and wild stretching forward of necks at the farther end of the table to see him. Holdsworth’s companion laughed until he grew faint, and then, to recover his strength, drank brandy and water, and then laughed again. The song was encored, genuine vulgarity seldom failing to please; and then a brief breathing-space of silence falling, Holdsworth said to his companion:
“Will you tell me how I am to get to Hanwitch from here?”