are up in arms for Libbaty--that is, of paying rents--
You've rum notions of Compulsion. NOCKY SPRIGGINS sez, sez 'e,
While you've got a chice of starving, or the workus, ain't ye
_free_!

Free? O vus, we're free all round like; there ain't ne'er a
bloomin' slave,
White or black, but wot is free enough--to pop into 'is grave;
Though if they ketch yer trying even _that_ game, and yer _fail_,
Yer next skool for teaching freedom ain't the workus, but the jail!

'Andcuffs ain't the sole "Compulsion," nor yet laws ain't, nor yet
whips;
There is sech things as 'unger, and yer starving kids' white lips,
And bizness ties, a hempty purse, bad 'ealth, and ne'er a crust;
Swells may swear these ain't Compulsion, but _we_ know as they
means _must_.

Ah! wot precious rum things _words_ is, 'ow they seems to fog the
wise!
If they'd only come and look at _things_, that is with their hown
heyes,
And not filantropic barnacles _or_ goldian giglamps--lor!
Wot a lob of grabs and gushers might shut up their blessed jor!

The nobs who're down on workmen, 'cos on "knobsticks" _they_ will
frown,
Has a 'arty love for Libbaty--when keepin' wages down.
Contrack's a sacred 'oly thing, freedom carnt 'ave _that_ broke,
But Free Contrack wot's _forced_ on yer--wy, o'course, that sounds
a joke.

If they knowed us and our sort, gents, they would know Free
Contrack's fudge,
When one side ain't got a copper, 'as been six weeks on the trudge,
Or 'as built his little bizness up in one pertikler spot,
And if the rent's raised on 'im must turn hout, and starve or rot!

Coarse words, my lords and ladies! Well, yer may as well be dumb,
As talk pooty on the questions wot concerns hus in the Slum.
There ain't nothink pooty in 'em, and I cannot 'elp but think
Some of our friends 'as spiled our case by piling on the pink.

Foxes 'ave 'oles, the Book sez; well, no doubt they feels content,
For they finds, or makes, their 'ouses, and don't 'ave to pay no
rent;
But _our_ 'oles--well, someone builds 'em for us, such, in course
is kind,
But it ain't a bad investment, as them Landlords seems to find.

The Marquiges and Mother Church pick lots of little plums,
And the wust on 'em don't seem to be their proputty in slums.
Oh, I'd like to take a Bishop on the trot around our court,