Sweet Ellen was a daughter Of my Lord and Lady C---- And once lived in a mansion, Yes she did in Belgrave Square, Sweet Ellen had an husbund, An honest upright man, And his lordship went a trespassing Upon her husband’s land.
My lord was fond of sporting, And hunting of the hare, He has to pay ten thousand pounds, The damage to repair; His lordship played the fiddle, Down in Scotia’s land, ’tis said, And his lordship must have fiddled well Both in and out of bed.
Now all young lords take warning, “When a hunting you do go, In the evening or the morning Pray beware of “Tally-ho!” If you are caught a trespassing On other people’s ground, Perhaps you’ll be like old Lord G---- Made to pay ten thousand pounds.
The lady’s injured husband, Has nobly gained the day, And beat old Mr December, Who seduced young Lady May.
H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.
Oh have you heard the jolly row, In London all around, just now, If not, I’ll tell you all, I vow, It is the strike of the Journeymen Tailors The masters and the men you see, They cannot very well agree, The masters they won’t alter the log, The men say they shall, so help their bob; The masters say the men are wrong, But the men say they are too strong, So I suppose they must settle it themselves among, This strike of the journeymen Tailors,
The sleeveboard and goose may idle lay, The needle and bobkin is stowed away, Oh, is there not the devil to pay, Thro’ the strike of the Journeyman Tailors
Now ever since the world began, They say nine tailors makes a man, But do without them they never can, The host of the Journeymen Tailors. For indebted to their work ’tis clear, Is kings and dukes, and lords and peers, They are wanted here, and wanted there, And all they want is to play fair. And they must get it, these men of stitches, Or what shall we do for coats and breeches, We must black and go naked, or hide in ditches Thro’ the strike of the Journeymen Tailors.
Now the tailors are of ancient date, Believe it’s true, what I now state, And I’ll tell you the time if you’ll only wait When the world was first blessed with a tailor The first there was, tho’ I never see’d him, Had his workshop in the garden of Eden, And I tell you he was not a green ’un, Tho’ he grew lots of cabbage to feed on; He stitched away when the world began, And made fig leaf togs, A No. 1, He was a regular Flint, and never a Dung, It was Adam, the first of the tailors.