W.W. Chilton
Billy Bennett
 (One Whistle.)
One whistle, that's for a taxi, it used to be one for a growler,
But now it stands for what I calls a snorting, stinking howler,
What goes without a horse and sports a clock with patent double action,
That tells the fare what he's to pay, down to a farden fraction ;

A thing that's drove without a whip and still's a 'ackney carriage,
An' yer feeds it upon paraffin and keeps it in a garridge;
Lummy, what's the use of your own little lot-if it don't pay?
People sneers and says that 'osses ain't no good... they've had their day.

Ah, they don't know what a pal a man's horse can be,
They've never read the love that shines in the eyes of my old gee,
The years have hushed old voices, there's not one left to call,
Except the voice of my old mare a whinnying in her stall.

(Two Whistles.)
Hansom there! that reminds me of the time when I drove a cab,
When I was young and smartish-like, with a coat of lightest drab;
A rose stuck in my buttonhole... a bit o' blood between the shafts,
Then all the world was gay, and driving was the best o' grafts.

I've seen a bit o' life from the perch of a hansom cab, no spoof,
I've seen a bit o' life at times thro' the trapdoor in the roof ;
On Derby days I've driven swells a tip top toney load,
We thought life was worth the living, as we passed things on the road,

We'd watch the races from the cab, lunch off chicken and champagne,
And back the winners, then turn the 'osses heads to town again,
And my winnings in my pocket and a fiver for my fare.
With a doll stuck in my hat, you bet I looked all there.

Thank God the missus was called off the rank before I came to this,
I was still her hansom cabby when I got her good bye kiss,
And now I shan't be sorry when death blows his whistles three,
And calls me off the rank for good-me and my old gee.

I only hope I go before I have to call the knacker in
She's old like me, and got to go but I'll hate to have to back her in
She's had to go short sometimes, not oftener than me, old dear,
At times there's only enough for 'er corn... or else my drop o' beer,

Then I pretends to toss for it (but I've always let her win)
If I've cheated to comfort my old gee-I reckon that ain't sin.
(Three Whistles.)
Four wheeler! P'raps things is going to turn, good luck. Hurray!
Coming Sir! Say old'll have a bit of corn to-day. 
The end