the son of a gambolier:
i’m a rambling wretch of poverty, from tip’ry town i came.
’twas poverty compelled me first to go out in the rain;
in all sorts of weather, be it wet or be it dry,
i am bound to get my livelihood or lay me down and die.
then combine your humble ditties as from tavern to tavern we steer;
like every honest fellow, i drinks my lager beer;
like every jolly fellow, i takes my whiskey clear,
i’m the rambling wretch of poverty, and the son of a gambolier
i’m the son of a, son of a, son of a, son of a, son of a gambolier.
i was once tall and handsome, and was so very neat;
they thought i was too good to live, most good enough to eat;
but now i’m old my coat is torn, and poverty holds me fast.
and every girl turns up her nose as i go wandering past.
i’m a rambling wretch of poverty, from tip’ry town i came;
my coat i bought from an old shop way down in maiden lane;
my hat i got from a sailor lad just eighteen years ago,
and my shoes i picked from an old dust heap, which everyone shunned but me!