No longer now up Highgate road
O' Sunday arternoons I gallop,
With all the brats, a tidy load,
And perhaps a neighbour's child to fill up.
At Farringdon and Common Garden,
I'm fairly laid upon the shelf;
My only chance to earn a farden,
Is truckling to the truck myself.
But we'll resist this horrid plot,
And for our order boldly strive,