'Ere, Lizer, wheer's yer gratitood? 'E ses, ses Mr. C.,

As it's a blessed 'eritage, is poverty, ses 'e.

Then think 'ow thankful an' 'ow blest we oughter feel, us two,

But yet yer that contrairy that I'm blest, Liz, if yer do.

Wot? 'Ungry? Wot is 'unger? Don't it vary the monotony

An' Wooster sorce yer vittles, that's supposin' as yer've got any?

Then think of them pore millionaires wot misses the delight

Of 'avin' 'ad no breakfast on a roarin' happytite.

Then money! I Think, Elizer, of them cruel stocks and shares

Wot makes their lives a torter to them martyred millionaires

Oh, ain't we much more appy when the sticks is up the spout

An' the kids is wantin' dinner and 'as got ter go without?

And don't it make yer 'eart bleed, too, to think of all the care

Of mansions in the country and an 'ouse in Grosvenor Square?

Ah, what would them pore fellers give if honly they could come

An' live with all their fam'ly in our garret hup the slum?

Wot, Liz? Yer'd like ter see 'em come? 'Ere, none o' that theer charf!

Yer'd sell yer bloomin' birthright for a pot of 'arf-an-'arf?

Lor, Liz! Ter think as you should be in sich a thankless mood!

Yer've got a "blessed 'eritage," an' 'ere's yer gratitood!