There’s the omnibus cads as plies in Cheapside, and keeps calling out Bank and City; Let his Worship, the Mayor, decide if our call of Sweep is not just as pretty. I can’t see why the Jews should be let go about crying Old Close thro’ their hooky noses, And Christian laws should be ten times more hard than the old stone laws of Moses. Why isn’t the mouths of the muffin-men compell’d to be equally shut? Why, because Parliament members eat muffins, but they never eat no sut. Next year there won’t be any May-day at all, we shan’t have no heart to dance, And Jack in the Green will go in black like mourning for our mischance; If we live as long as May, that’s to say, through the hard winter and pinching weather, For I don’t see how we’re to earn enough to keep body and soul together. I only wish Mr. Wilberforce or some of them that pities the niggers, Would take a peep down in our cellars, and look at our miserable starving figures, A-sitting idle on our empty sacks, and all ready to eat each other, And a brood of little ones crying for bread to a heart-breaking Father and Mother. They haven’t a rag of clothes to mend, if their mothers had thread and needles, But crawl naked about the cellars, poor things, like a swarm of common black beadles. If they’d only inquired before passing the Act and taken a few such peeps, I don’t think that any real gentleman would have set his face against sweeps. Climbin’s an ancient respectable art, and if History’s of any vally, Was recommended by Queen Elizabeth to the great Sir Walter Raleigh, When he wrote on a pane of glass how I’d climb, if the way I only knew, And she writ beneath, if your heart’s afeard, don’t venture up the flue. As for me I was always loyal, and respected all powers that are higher, But how can I now say God save the King, if I an’t to be a Cryer? There’s London milk, that’s one of the cries, even on Sunday the law allows, But ought black sweeps, that are human beasts, to be worser off than black cows? Do _we_ go calling about, when it’s church time, like the noisy Billingsgate vermin, And disturb the parson with “All alive O!” in the middle of a funeral sermon? But the fish won’t keep, not the mackarel won’t, is the cry of the Parliament elves, Every thing, except the sweeps I think, is to be allowed to keep themselves! Lord help us! what’s to become of us if we mustn’t cry no more? We shan’t do for black mutes to go a standing at a death’s door. And we shan’t do to emigrate, no not even to the Hottentot nations, For as time wears on, our black will wear off, and then think of our situations! And we should not do, in lieu of black-a-moor footmen, to serve ladies of quality nimbly, For when we’re drest in our sky-blue and silver, and large frills, all