And booths up and down of all sorts and sizes, till it looks like a Boothia Felix quite,
Vith the moniment for the North Pole—that is, ven the fog and smoke'll let you git a sight—
And the turnpike men off the warious bridges, vith nothink in the vorld to do all day
But go to sleep on their rusty turnstiles, for in course people ain't sitch spoons as to pay
To pass thro' their rewolving plate-warmers, ven they can go over the vater free;
Vich I don't care so much for the bridge chaps, 'cause they does a good deal o' harm to we.
As for Billingsgate Market, the trade there's downright flat, ruinated and dead;
The fine fresh soles can't come up to be cried, and so they cries cast-metal skates instead.
I alvays thought sitch things vos regilated by act of parlyment, and proclaimed by the Lord Mayor;
I knows a bit o' Burnses's Justice, I does; and my opinion is, it aint a legle fair.