Her master went out for a walk, And as he abroad did roam, I will tell you what Miss Newall did, While her master was from home; She turned the house near inside out, Indeed I am no joker, She cut the hair from off her head, And stuck it on the poker. She got a lot of bullock’s blood, And mixed up in a pail, Sir, So to think that I am murdered, now Master will not fail, Sir; She smashed the poker right in two, That no one should doubt it, With a bit of glue, now this is true, She stuck the hair about it. She in the wainscoat cut a hole, Just the size of a man, sir, She smashed a window from the inside, Saying, I’m the girl that can, sir, Crack a crib with any chap, And back up all the riches, Then she pulled off her crinoline, And put on the pegtop breeches. With new spring boots, & fine cloth vest And overcoat to match, sir, With the lodger’s hat & nice gold guard, She was up to the scratch, sir, She had the cheek to call a cab, With boxes in rotation, Saying, Cabby, old boy, as quick as you like, Drive off to Shoreditch Station. Now her master soon returned home, The truth I do declare, sir, Saying the house is rob’d and Mary’s dead, Here’s the poker cover’d with hair, sir To the station-house he quick did send, Murder and robbery, who could doubt it, But Detective Sheen, a clever chap, Soon told them all about it. The telegraph was set to work, The best thing for to track her, It was soon found she at Yarmouth was A smoking of her tobacco; Drest up in slap togs, you’re sure, Like the greatest swells of the day, She got dead nuts on her landlady, And took her to the play. Sheen, the detective, soon found her out And the place where she dwelt, sir, The landlady told him, her nice young man Was walking with the girls, sir But she was nabbed, cigar in hand, She swore she fight a duel, Sheen says, where is your petticoats? I know you Mary Newall. She sold her togs, both stays and shift, Hair bag, dresses, and bustle, She had bought a pair of pegtop tights, To go off in a bustle; To the Magistrate she was brought up, And stripped of all her riches, The Magistrate said, take her away, And pull off this lady’s breeches. H. Disley, Printer, 57, High street, St. Giles. SHE HE BARMAN OF SOUTHWARK. You bonny lads and lasses gay. Who like a bit of chaff, I’ll tell you of a She He Barman, And I’m sure ’will make you laugh. She did not like the petticoats, So she slipped the trousers on, She engaged herself as a barman, And said her name was Tom.