You must not buy, but you must starve, You must not sing, you must not laugh, So you had better sow your mouth up fast, Says the Bill on Sunday trading. You must not sell, you must not buy, To earn a crust you must not try, Nor in the streets lay down and die, Says the Bill on Sunday trading. For the poor a fig they do not care, More workhouses they must prepare, He ought to be kicked to I know where, For his Bill on Sunday trading. H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles. SOUTHWARK ELECTION. ODGER AND VICTORY. Now all you gallant Southwark men, Who does require protection, Just mind I say, your p’s and q’s At this Great Grand Election; Never don’t elect a man Who your wages will be stinting, And never have a covetuous man Like one who lives by printing. Then act like men you Southwark blades, Have neither a printer nor a “sodger, Vote for a man who will protect your trade, And sing, Southwark, lads, and Odger. Long enough the poor man has been crushed, Now is your time or never, Come, now with me lads, nimble be, Here’s Odger, lads, for ever. Don’t you elect a Waterlow, Whose principles are stinting, He knows as much about the poor man’s rights As a donkey knows of printing. There has lately been some glorious fights, In Southwark, says Ben Fagan. It beat the Battle of Bunker’s Hill, And the glories of Copenhagen; An old lady stood by London Bridge, Bawling, lick me you shall never, She jumped complete to Toloey Street, Bawling, Odger, boys, for ever. In Bermondsey there was glorious fun Among the girls and sailors, It put the Borough all in mind Of the devil among the tailors. A grocer’s wife, full of spleen and spite, Doffed her chignon so clever, Pulled her petticoat off and went aloft, Singing, Odger, boys, for ever. Oh, Colonel, Colonel Beresford, You are a rum old codger, Neither you or Waterlow Can ever cope with Odger;-- Odger is a working man, And as clever a man as Pompey, Odger is a gentleman, And you are a pair of donkeys. When Odger is returned, my boys, To the brim we’ll fill our glasses, We will drink success to the tanners’ wives, And the blooming Kent Street lasses; From the Bricklayers’ Arms to London Bridge, There will be such a bustle, Aye, and all the way from Cotton’s Wharf To the Elephant and Castle. Put the right man in the right place, Keep out the aristocratic sodger Tell old Waterlow it is no go-- It is victory and Odger; The working men must have a friend, Who against tyranny is clever, With heart and glee, sing liberty, Odger, my lads, for ever.