“Oi! Lucy! Quit your dreamin’, girl. You never does a turn!
“It’s time you learned there’s more to life that sittin’ lookin’ pretty,
“A-dreamin’ of fine gennelmen. The cream is in the churn,
“So make and take the butter now, and sell it in the city.”
Poor unlucky Lucy! Wasn’t that a pity!
Close by the road as leads to town a huggly robber lay.
‘e lay, unlucky gennelman, upon a nest of hants.
So ‘e ‘and’t time for robbery when Lucy passed that way —
‘e was ragin’ round stark naked, like, a-shakin’ out ‘is pants.
Poor unlucky Lucy! Dreamin’ of romance.
As Lucy stopped to gaze upon this hinteresting sight,
Crash! In the road a’ead of ‘er a rotten ellum dropped —
A wicked tree old ellum be, and chancy with it — right
Bang in the place wher Lucy might have been, unless she’d stopped!
Poor unlucky Lucy! Nearly you was copped!
In climbing through this hobstacle ‘er cotton skirt she tore,
Hexposin’ of ‘er petticoat, a gracious shade of red.
And there was Farmer Boothroyd’s bull! And red it was ‘e saw!
‘e pawed the ground! ‘e broke ‘is rope! ‘e charged! ‘ow Lucy fled!
Poor unlucky Lucy! Now you’re good as dead.
She fled as quick as winkin’ to the bridge across the river,
And the bull come quick be’ind ‘er, and ‘e was of monstruous weight.
When ‘e stamped upon the timbers, why, the bridge began to shiver.
And it broke! And they fell through it! And the river was in spate!
Poor unlucky Lucy” What an ‘ijjus fate!
The bull falls in the river, like, but Lucy in a boat,
For ‘ere comes this fine young gennelman a-punting on the stream,
When down into ‘is arms there falls a crimson petticoat
Containin’ one young lady what’s as pretty as a dream.
Poor unlucky Lucy! Should of ‘eard ‘er scream!
“Ow, Lady in red petticoats, now will you be my bride?
“For never till this moment did my ‘eart feel Cupid’s sting.
“I ham the Duke of Dumbleshire. My lands are rich and wide.
“There’ll be pearls upon your weddin’ dress and di’monds in your ring.”
Poor unlucky Lucy! ‘opin’ for a king!
You’ll ‘ave to tell yourselves the rest. My tale goes on for hours,
And just the same the ‘ole way through, cos Lucy’s made that way.
‘owever full ‘er life is of hexcitement, wealth and flowers,
She thinks about what might have been and sighs “Alackaday!”
Poor unlucky Lucy! Only ‘uman clay.