SAINTS AND LODGERS by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES

Ye saints, that sing in rooms above,
Do ye want souls to consecrate?
Here's 'Boosy' Bob, 'Pease Pudding' Joe,
And 'Fishy Fat,' of Billingsgate.

Such language only they can speak,
It juggles heaven and hell together;
One threatens, with a fearful oath,
To slit a nose like a pig's trotter.

Here's sporting Fred, swears he is robbed,
And out of fifteen shillings done
By his own pal, who would not lend
Sixpence to back a horse that won.

Here's Davie, he's so used to drink,
When sober he is most bemuddled;
He steers his craft with better skill,
And grows quite sly when he is fuddled.

Here's 'Brummy' Tom, a little man,
Who proudly throws his weight in drink;
He knows men think him poor when sober,
And then, ashamed, to bed doth slink.

The 'Masher' who, by his kind deeds,
The friendship of our house hath lost;
He lent out cash that's not repaid --
They hate him worst who owe him most.

Here's 'Irish' Tim, outspoken wretch,
Insult him, he is thy staunch friend;
But say 'Good morning,' civil like,
He'll damn thee then to thy life's end.

What use are friends if not to bear
Our venom and malicious spleen!
Which, on our life! we dare not give
To foes who'll question what we mean.

Come down, ye saints, to old 'Barge' Bill,
And make his wicked heart to quake,
His stomach nothing can upset,
He boils his tea an hour to make.

Ye saints above, come to these sinners:
To 'Sunny' James, and 'Skilly' Bob,
'The Major,' 'Dodger,' 'Tinker' George,
And 'Deafy,' he's the lodgers' snob.

Here's 'Yank,' we call 'All Legs and Wings,'
He's so erratic in his motion;
And poor wee 'Punch,' a sickly man --
He's worse when he hath ta'en his lotion.

'Haymaker' George, a pig for pickles,
And 'Brass' for old clay pipes swops new;
Here's 'Balmy' Joe, he's cursed clean,
Sweeps beetles in one's mutton stew.

'Australian' Bill, ta'en sick away,
Came home to find his wife hath slid
To other arms; he's done with Liz,
But in his heart he wants the kid.

Here's Jack, so mean he begs from beggars,
Who make scant living door to door;
Here's 'Slim,' a quiet man awake,
Whose sleep's a twenty-horse-power snore.

Here's 'Sailor,' pacing to and fro,
Twice on his four hours' watch to see;
Ten paces forward, ten go aft --
A silent man and mystery.

'The Watchman' takes twelve naps a day
And at each wake his mouth is foul;
When he shall wake from his last sleep
He'll have good cause to curse his soul.

Here's gentle Will, who knows most things,
Throws light on Egypt and the Nile --
And many more to consecrate,
If, Christian folk, ye think worth while.

Toy-sellers, fish-men, paper-men,
A few work barges, few are cadgers;
Some make up flowers from wire and wool,
Some pensions take -- such are our lodgers.

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