Unnattaral, I say—for who ever meant wessels to go on wheels? or a nasty, long, curly, black,
Stinking, pothery pennant o' smoke to take place o' the British Union Jack?
And as if that vosn't enough, to spoil our trade and set all our poor old hearts a breaking,
Mr. Brunel must come to finish us up, poor wretches! vith his horrid under-taking.
Mister B. is a wery ambitious man, that's vot he is, and his work a wery great bore:
But, thank heav'n! it'll be a long time before his tunnel (whatever his fame may do) reaches from shore to shore.
I never gets a sight o' nothink good now—beefsteaks, nor anything else that's nice:
No ingins (except steam ingins), and you may count my ribs (tho' you can't the ribs of ice).
I did a job for a confectioner t'other day, as vos a trying to larn to skate,
But his heels tript up right bang, and down he fell on the back of his pate.