1

I reckon the days is departed,
When folks 'ud a listened to me,
And I feels like as one broken-hearted,
A-thinking o' what used to be.
And I don't know as much be amended,
Than was in them merry old Times,
When, wi' pipes and good ale, folks attended,
To me and my purty old rhymes,
CHORUS: To me and my purty old rhymes.

2

'Tis true, I be cruel asthmatic
I've lost every tooth i' my head;
And my limbs be that crim'd wi' rheumatic
D'rsay I were better in bed.
Oh my! all the world be for reading
Newspapers, and books and what not;
Sure—'tis only conceitedness breeding,
And the old singing man is forgot.
CHORUS: And the old singing man is forgot.

3

I reckon that wi' my brown fiddle
I'd go from this cottage to that;
All the youngsters 'ud dance in the middle,
Their pulses and feet, pit-a-pat.
I cu'd zing, if you'd stand me the liquor,
All the night, and 'ud never give o'er
My voice—I don't deny it getting thicker,
But never exhausting my store.
CHORUS: But never exhausting my store.

4

'Tis politics now is the fashion
As sets folks about by the ear.
And slops makes the poorest of lushing,
No zinging for me wi'out beer.
I reckon the days be departed
For such jolly gaffers as I,
Folks never will be so light-hearted
As they was in the days that's gone by.
CHORUS: As they was in the days that's gone by.

5

O Lor! what wi' their edication,
And me—neither cypher nor write;
But in zinging the best in the nation
And give the whole parish delight.
I be going, I reckon, full mellow
To lay in the Churchyard my head;
So say—God be wi' you, old fellow!
The last o' the Zingers is dead.
CHORUS: The last o' the Zingers is dead.