While The Billy BoilsSearchAgainst the Helmet of Modern Times.I was a peeler of a kindThat's seldom met with now;I used to part my hair behind,It clustered o'er my brow
In glossy ringlets, crisp and dark;I had a massive chest,And oft I lit love's fatal sparkWithin the female breast.
The buttons on my coat of blueShone with effulgent light,And cooks with eyes of dazzling hueFell prostrate at the sight.
At almost every kitchen doorThey met me with a smile;But then in modest pride I woreThe regulation tile.
No more they come with outstretched armsMy person to enwrap;No more they hold the mutton coldAs sacred to the trap.
They never asks me into sup;No smoking joints they bile;They hates this cursed new-come-up—This 'elmet mean and vile.
The boys what vends the "Evenin' News,'"When I comes stalkin' by,Awakes each alley, lane and mews,With, "Crikey! 'ere's a guy!"
The cabbies stare so hard at me,No wonder I gets huffed;They grins, and axes who I be,And if I'm "real or stuffed"
And when I walks about my beatThe hosses dreads the sight;They stands up endways in the streetA snortin' with affright.
The 'bus-conductors winks and leers,And holds their sides and splits;And kids of very tender yearsI frightens into fits.
I once was right at forty-fourFor supper, lunch, and tea;Upon this bosom Susan sworeShe'd never love but me.
Alas! for that inconstant cookThe 'elmet 'ad no charms;A most sanguineous butcher tookMy Susan to his arms.
My Susan's cheeks were fair and sleek—So were the chops she cooked;But on her chops, and on her cheek,My last I fear I've looked.
That butcher said as how 'twas meatThat me and she should part,And never more for me will beatThat culinary 'eart.
Now listen you who've got to fixWhat bobbies is to wear,And if your 'earts aim 'ard as bricks,Oh! 'ear a peelers prayer.
Oh! take the elmet from my brow—The curse from off my 'ed;You aint no sort o' notion owI wishes I wos dead.
There's nothing calculated moreA cove's good looks to spile;Oh! if you've 'carts, restore, restore,The regulation tile!
You can't give back that cook's fond 'eart—Her chops, her cheek, her smile;But if you'd make amends in part,Restore, restore my tile!