I was a peeler of a kind

That's seldom met with now;

I used to part my hair behind,

It clustered o'er my brow

In glossy ringlets, crisp and dark;

I had a massive chest,

And oft I lit love's fatal spark

Within the female breast.

The buttons on my coat of blue

Shone with effulgent light,

And cooks with eyes of dazzling hue

Fell prostrate at the sight.

Original

At almost every kitchen door

They met me with a smile;

But then in modest pride I wore

The regulation tile.

No more they come with outstretched arms

My person to enwrap;

No more they hold the mutton cold

As sacred to the trap.

They never asks me into sup;

No smoking joints they bile;

They hates this cursed new-come-up—

This 'elmet mean and vile.

Original

The boys what vends the "Evenin' News,'"

When I comes stalkin' by,

Awakes each alley, lane and mews,

With, "Crikey! 'ere's a guy!"

The cabbies stare so hard at me,

No wonder I gets huffed;

They grins, and axes who I be,

And if I'm "real or stuffed"

Original

And when I walks about my beat

The hosses dreads the sight;

They stands up endways in the street

A snortin' with affright.

The 'bus-conductors winks and leers,

And holds their sides and splits;

And kids of very tender years

I frightens into fits.

I once was right at forty-four

For supper, lunch, and tea;

Upon this bosom Susan swore

She'd never love but me.

Alas! for that inconstant cook

The 'elmet 'ad no charms;

A most sanguineous butcher took

My Susan to his arms.

My Susan's cheeks were fair and sleek—

So were the chops she cooked;

But on her chops, and on her cheek,

My last I fear I've looked.

Original

That butcher said as how 'twas meat

That me and she should part,

And never more for me will beat

That culinary 'eart.

Now listen you who've got to fix

What bobbies is to wear,

And if your 'earts aim 'ard as bricks,

Oh! 'ear a peelers prayer.

Original

Oh! take the elmet from my brow—

The curse from off my 'ed;

You aint no sort o' notion ow

I wishes I wos dead.

There's nothing calculated more

A cove's good looks to spile;

Oh! if you've 'carts, restore, restore,

The regulation tile!

You can't give back that cook's fond 'eart—

Her chops, her cheek, her smile;

But if you'd make amends in part,

Restore, restore my tile!

Original

THE following verses will probably be more intelligible to the bush reader than the metropolitan one. The latter is at liberty to "pass":—

Original