Sure-ly they're getting the whip-hand of all us honest jarvies;
To rob us of our fare is like depriving us of vittle,
And giving us no meat to cut, but leaving us a Whittle.
The watermen are all in tears,—it's fitting you should know,
That the stopping of our going is to them a tale of "Wo;"
And the 'osses stands, quite sad to see, besides the crib in vain,
And wonders whether they shall ever taste a bit again.
Now they're gettin' out of natur, for their raws is all a healing,
And soon they'll be onsenseless brutes, without a bit of feeling.
Or else they'll pine away so fast, the knackers scarce will skin 'em,