There can't be no 'arm, dear, in that.

Let's write to the papers and 'int it.

I know with your pen you are pat,

And the Times will be 'appy to print it.

If we are to git through that lot,

We must 'ave some more 'elp—that's my notion!

Let's strike whilst the iron is 'ot,

The Public may trust our dewotion.

We'll call the chief Laundresses round;

Some way we no doubt shall discover.

At least, dear, 'twill 'ave a good sound,

If we meet, and—well talk the thing over!

Did you ever 'ear our music? What, never? There's a shame;

I tell yer it's golopshus, we do 'ave such a game.

When the sun's a-shinin' brightly, when the fog's upon the town,

When the frost 'as bust the water-pipes, when rain comes pourin' down;

In the mornin' when the costers come a-shoutin' with their mokes,

In the evenin' when the gals walk out a-spoonin' with their blokes,

When Mother's slappin' BILLY, or when Father wants 'is tea,

When the boys are in the "Spotted Dog" a 'avin' of a spree,

No matter what the weather is, or what the time o' day,

Our music allus visits us, and never goes away.

And when they've tooned theirselves to-rights, I tell yer it's a treat

Just to listen to the lot of 'em a-playin' in our street.

There's a chap as turns the orgin—the best I ever 'eard—

Oh lor' he does just jabber, but you can't make out a word.

I can't abear Italians, as allus uses knives,

And talks a furrin lingo all their miserable lives.

But this one calls me BELLA—which my Christian name is SUE—

And 'e smiles and turns 'is orgin very proper, that he do.

Sometimes 'e plays a polker and sometimes it's a march,

And I see 'is teeth all shinin' through 'is lovely black mustarch.

And the little uns dance round him, you'd laugh until you cried

If you saw my little brothers do their 'ornpipes side by side,

And the gals they spin about as well, and don't they move their feet,

When they 'ear that pianner-orgin man, as plays about our street.

There's a feller plays a cornet too, and wears a ulster coat,

My eye, 'e does puff out 'is cheeks a-tryin' for 'is note.

It seems to go right through yer, and, oh, it's right-down rare

When 'e gives us "Annie Laurie" or "Sweet Spirit, 'ear my Prayer";

'E's so stout that when 'e's blowin' 'ard you think 'e must go pop;

And 'is nose is like the lamp (what's red) outside a chemist's shop.

And another blows the penny-pipe,—I allus thinks it's thin,

And I much prefers the cornet when 'e ain't bin drinkin' gin.

And there's Concertina-JIMMY, it makes yer want to shout

When 'e acts just like a windmill and waves 'is arms about.

Oh, I'll lay you 'alf a tanner, you'll find it 'ard to beat

The good old 'eaps of music that they gives us in our street.

And a pore old ragged party, whose shawl is shockin' torn,

She sings to suit 'er 'usband while 'e plays on so forlorn.

'Er voice is dreadful wheezy, and I can't exactly say

I like 'er style of singin' "Tommy Dodd" or "Nancy Gray."

But there, she does 'er best, I'm sure; I musn't run 'er down,

When she's only tryin' all she can to earn a honest brown.

Still, though I'm mad to 'ear 'em play, and sometimes join the dance,

I often wish one music gave the other kind a chance.

The orgin might have two days, and the cornet take a third,

While the pipe-man tried o' Thursdays 'ow to imitate a bird.

But they allus comes together, singin' playin' as they meet

With their pipes and 'orns and orgins in the middle of our street.

But there, I can't stand chatterin', pore mother's mortal bad,

And she's got to work the whole day long to keep things straight for dad.

Complain? Not she. She scrubs and rubs with all 'er might and main,

And the lot's no sooner finished but she's got to start again.

There's a patch for JOHNNY's jacket, a darn for BILLY's socks,

And an hour or so o' needlework a mendin' POLLY's frocks;

With floors to wash, and plates to clean, she'd soon be skin and bone

('Er cough's that aggravatin') if she did it all alone.

There'll be music while we're workin' to keep us on the go—

I like my tunes as fast as fast, pore mother likes 'em slow—

Ah! we don't get much to laugh at, nor yet too much to eat,

And the music stops us thinkin' when they play it in the street.