Our Street

In our street, the main street Running thro' the town, You see a lot of busy folk Going up and down:

Bag men and basket men, Men with loads of hay, Buying things and selling things And carting things away.

The butcher is a funny man, He calls me Dandy Dick; The baker is a cross man, I think he's often sick;

The fruiterer's a nice man, He gives me apples, too; The grocer says, "Good morning, boy, What can I do for you?"

Of all the men in our street I like the cobbler best, Tapping, tapping at his last Without a minute's rest;

Talking all the time he taps, Driving in the nails, Smiling with his old grey eyes-- (Hush) . . . telling fairy tales.