Ballad—in the Razor Grinder

Tom Turnwell is my name, my boys, I'll strike a stroke with any, The trade that all my time employs, To get an honest penny, As good, as just, as most you'll find. With rubbing stone, And strop, and hone, I whet the very sharpest steel: And cry the while I turn my wheel, Pen-knives, scissars, Cleavers, Razors, Chopping knives to grind.

I'm useful throughout all the town, The smooth and pampered glutton, When e'er to dinner he sits down, Can never carve his mutton, Unless his knife is to his mind. With rubbing stone, &c.

The pretty dame who sweet can smile, Who is for ever smirking, And who the minutes can beguile. With love as well as working, Would she her scissars sharpened find. With rubbing stone, &c.

My friend the barber o'er the way, Who daily lathers many, And picks up pretty well each day, By shaving for a penny; To me his razors are consign'd. With rubbing stone, &c.