’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,
  And then arsk ’ow the Church spends the coin collected from our
          sort.

  Wot’s the use of pictering ’errors?  Let ’im put ’is ’oly nose
  To the pain of close hinspection; lot his venerable toes
  Pick a pathway through our gutter, let his gaiters climb our stairs;
  And when ’e kneels that evening, I should like to ’ear ’is prayers!

  I’m afraid that in Rats’ Rents he mightn’t find a place to kneel
  Without soiling of his small clothes.  Yus, to live in dirt, I feel
  Is a ’orrid degradation; but one thing I’d like to know,
  Is it wus than living on it?  Let ’im answer; it’s his go.

  “All a blowing” ain’t much paternised, not down our Court, it ain’t. 
  Wich we aren’t as sweet as iersons, not yet as fresh as paint! 
  For yer don’t get spicy breezes in a den all dirt and dusk,
  From a ‘apenny bunch o’ wallflower, or a penny plarnt o’ musk.