THE TINKER's SONG

My daddy was a tinker's son, And I'm his boy, 'tis ten to one Here's pots to mend! was still his cry, Here's pots to mend! aloud bawl I— Have ye any tin pots, kettles, or cans, Coppers to solder, or brass pans. Of wives my dad had near a score, And I have twice as many more— And what's as wonderful as true, My daddy was the lord (upon my soul he was) the lord knows who!

Ran, tan, tan, ran, tan, tan, For pots or can, oh I'm your man, With my ran tan, &c.

Once I in budget snug had got A barn-door capon, and what not— Here's pots to mend! I cried along, Here's pots to mend! was still my song. At village wake—oh, curse his throat! The cock crow'd out so loud a note, The folks in clusters flock'd around, They seiz'd my budget, in it found The cock, a gammon, pease and beans, Besides a jolly tinker (yes by the lord) a tinker's ways and means.

Ran tan, tan, &c.

Like dad, when I to quarters come, For want of cash the folks I hum— Here's pots to mend! bring me some beer! The landlord cries 'you'll get none here, 'You tink'ring dog, your tricks I know, 'More beer indeed! pay what you owe!' In rage I squeeze him 'gainst the door, And with his back rub off my score: At his expence I drown all strife, For which I praise the landlord (could not do no less than praise) the landlord's wife.

Ran, tan, tan, &c.