|
There's your lords and ladies fine, |
|
Riding in a coach and six, |
|
Nothing to drink but claret wine, |
|
Talking politicks. |
|
London is a dainty place, |
|
A great and gallant city! |
|
All the streets are paved with gold, |
|
And all the folks are witty. |
|
There's your beaux with powder'd clothes, |
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Bedaub'd from head to chin, |
|
Their pocket-holes adorned with gold, |
|
but not one sou within. |
|
There's your lords and ladies fine, |
|
Riding in a coach and six, |
|
Nothing to drink but claret wine, |
|
Talking politicks. |
|
There your English actor goes |
|
With many a hungry belly; |
|
While heaps of gold are forc'd, God wot, |
|
on Signor Farinelli. |
|
There's your lords and ladies fine, |
|
Riding in a coach and six, |
|
Nothing to drink but claret wine, |
|
Talking politicks. |
|
London is a dainty place, |
|
A great and gallant city! |
|
All the streets are paved with gold, |
|
All the folks are witty. |
|
There's your dames with dainty frames, |
|
Skins as white as milk; |
|
Dressed every day in garments gay, |
|
Of satin and of silk. |
|
London is a dainty place. |
