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.
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.
At the Royal Mortar Tavern, London Road, She served the customers all round, The She He Barman was engaged By Mr Frederick Brown,
She popped around the bar like steam, The girls and chaps did wink, When they went in for a drop of gin, But little did they think That Tommy Walker was a maid, When they together met, Last night a costermonger said, Who’d thought Tom’s name was Bet.
In the morning she put on her shirt, Her trousers, coat, and boots, She He Tommy Walker A regular swell did look; She could drink a little drop of stout, And smoke a mild cigar, Tommy Walker, the female barman, Was a clever chap, oh! la!
She had neither beard or moustache, And her belly was not big, But Tom the He She barman Turned out to be a prig; She nailed the sixpences and shillings, And she prigged the half-a-crown; She three months was Tom the barman At Mr Frederick Brown’s.
She Tom had been a sailor, Two years upon the main, She was dropped from the Royal Mortar, On board the ship Horsemonger Lane Three years she doffed the petticoats, And put the trousers on, She served behind the counter, And the people called her Tom.