ORGANS that gentlemen play, my boy,

  To answer to the taste of the day, my boy,

Whatever it be,

They hit on the key, _ 

And pipe in full concert away, my boy.

News from all countries and climes, my boy, 

Advertisements, essays, and rhymes, my boy,

Mixed up with all sorts

Of flying reports, 

And published at regular times, my boy.

Articles able and wise, my boy,

At least in the editor's eyes, my boy;

And logic so grand

That few understand 

To what in the world it applies, my boy.

Statistics, reflections, reviews, my boy; 

Little scraps to instruct and amuse, my boy;

And lengthy debate

On matters of State, 

For wise-headed folk to peruse, my boy.

The funds as they were and are, my boy; 

The quibbles and quirks of the. bar, my boy;

And every week

A clever critique 

On some theatrical star, my boy.

The age of Jupiter's moons, my boy;

The stealing of somebody's spoons, my boy;

The state of the crops,

The style of the fops, 

And the wit of the public buffoons, my boy.

Last of all, physical ills, my boy, 

Banished by somebody's pills, my boy,

Till you ask with surprise

Why any one dies, 

Or what's the disorder that kills, my boy.

Who has got married, and to whom, my boy;

Who were cut off in their bloom, my boy; 

Who has had birth 

On this sorrow-stained earth,

And who totters past to the tomb, my boy.

The price of cattle and grain, my boy; 

Directions to dig and to drain, my boy;

But 'twould take me too long

To tell you in song 

A quarter of all they contain, my boy.