to cry hear, hear,
      and order, order. 
I wonder Mr. Sutton, as we’ve sut-on too, don’t sympathize with us As a Speaker what don’t speak, and that’s exactly our own cus.  God help us if we don’t not cry, how are we to pursue our callings?  I’m sure we’re not half so bad as other businesses with their bawlings.  For instance, the general postmen, that at six o’clock go about ringing, And wake up all the babbies that their mothers have just got to sleep with
      singing. 
Greens oughtn’t to be cried no more than blacks—­to do the unpartial job, If they bring in a Sooty Bill, they ought to have brought in a Dusty Bob.  Is a dustman’s voice more sweet than ourn, when he comes a seeking arter
      the cinders,
Instead of a little boy like a blackbird in spring, singing merrily
      under your windows? 
There’s the omnibus cads as plies in Cheapside, and keeps calling out
      Bank and City;
Let his Worship, the Mayor, decide if our call of Sweep is not just as
      pretty. 
I can’t see why the Jews should be let go about crying Old Close
      thro’ their hooky noses,
And Christian laws should be ten times more hard than the old stone laws
      of Moses. 
Why isn’t the mouths of the muffin-men compell’d to be equally shut?  Why, because Parliament members eat muffins, but they never eat no sut.  Next year there won’t be any May-day at all, we shan’t have no heart
      to dance,
And Jack in the Green will go in black like mourning for our mischance; If we live as long as May, that’s to say, through the hard winter
      and pinching weather,
For I don’t see how we’re to earn enough to keep body and soul together.  I only wish Mr. Wilberforce, or some of them that pities the niggers, Would take a peep down in our cellars, and look at our miserable starving
      figures,
A-sitting idle on our empty sacks, and all ready to eat each other, And a brood of little ones crying for bread to a heartbreaking Father
      and Mother. 
They havn’t a rag of clothes to mend, if their mothers had thread
      and needles,
But crawl naked about the cellars, poor things, like a swarm of common
      black beadles. 
If they’d only inquired before passing the Act, and taken a few such
      peeps,
I don’t think that any real gentleman would have set his face against
      sweeps. 
Climbing’s an ancient respectable art, and if History’s of any vally, Was recommended by Queen Elizabeth to the great Sir Walter Raleigh, When he wrote on a pane of glass how I’d climb, if the way I only knew, And she writ beneath, if your heart’s afeard, don’t venture up the flue.  As for me I was always loyal, and respected all powers that are higher, But how can I now say God save the King, if I ain’t to be a Cryer?  There’s London milk, that’s one of the cries, even on Sunday the law allows, But ought black sweeps, that are human beasts, to be worser off than