The nobs who're down on workmen, 'cos on "knobsticks" _they_ will frown, Has a 'arty love for Libbaty--when keepin' wages down. Contrack's a sacred 'oly thing, freedom carnt 'ave _that_ broke, But Free Contrack wot's _forced_ on yer--wy, o'course, that sounds a joke. If they knowed us and our sort, gents, they would know Free Contrack's fudge, When one side ain't got a copper, 'as been six weeks on the trudge, Or 'as built his little bizness up in one pertikler spot, And if the rent's raised on 'im must turn hout, and starve or rot! Coarse words, my lords and ladies! Well, yer may as well be dumb, As talk pooty on the questions wot concerns hus in the Slum. There ain't nothink pooty in 'em, and I cannot 'elp but think Some of our friends 'as spiled our case by piling on the pink. Foxes 'ave 'oles, the Book sez; well, no doubt they feels content, For they finds, or makes, their 'ouses, and don't 'ave to pay no rent; But _our_ 'oles--well, someone builds 'em for us, such, in course is kind, But it ain't a bad investment, as them Landlords seems to find. The Marquiges and Mother Church pick lots of little plums, And the wust on 'em don't seem to be their proputty in slums. Oh, I'd like to take a Bishop on the trot around our court, And then arsk 'ow the Church spends the coin collected from our sort. Wot's the use of pictering 'errors? Let 'im put 'is 'oly nose To the pain of close hinspection; lot his venerable toes Pick a pathway through our gutter, let his gaiters climb our stairs; And when 'e kneels that evening, I should like to 'ear 'is prayers! I'm afraid that in Rats' Rents he mightn't find a place to kneel Without soiling of his small clothes. Yus, to live in dirt, I feel Is a 'orrid degradation; but one thing I'd like to know, Is it wus than living _on_ it? Let 'im answer; it's his go. "All a blowing" ain't much paternised, not down our Court, it ain't. Wich we aren't as sweet as iersons, not yet as fresh as paint! For yer don't get spicy breezes in a den all dirt and dusk, From a 'apenny bunch o' wallflower, or a penny plarnt o' musk. Wot do _you_ think? Bless yer 'earts, gents, I wos down some months ago With a bout o' the rheumatics, and 'ad got so precious low I wos sent by some good ladies, wot acrost me chanced to come-- Bless their kindness!--to a 'evvin called a Convalescent 'Ome. Phew! Wen I come back to Rats' Rents, 'ow I sickened of its smells, Arter all them trees and 'ayfields, and them laylocks and blue-bells, And sometimes I think--pertikler when I'm nabbed by them old pains-- Wot a proper world it might be if it weren't for dirt and drains.