I am a bus conductor, smart, man you cannot spoof
I pick up gents and ladies and a tidy bit of 'oof'
My bus is called the Favourite, and I'm a trifle fly
If you think you'll get one over me, why just you have a try.

Chorus: 'Igh 'Olborn, I'gh 'Olborn! now hurry up ladies please
There's plenty of room inside the bus, so don't you push and squeeze
I carry the tarts, oh! bless their hearts, and swells of the highest rank
Any more going on by the Favourite bus? Cheapside or the Bank, Bank, Bank.

I like to get bang crammed full up, but ladies ain't good biz
They take up so much room, you know what their improvers is
My bus holds twelve inside, and what I'm telling you is true
The other night, I'll give my word, I packed in twenty-two.


My life is such a busy one, my head seems never clear
What with the wind, the rain and snow, the worry and the beer
When I come home from work at night I'm knocked all of a heap
And often fancy that I'm on the bus when I'm asleep.

Written and composed by E.W. Rogers - 1915
home spaceA spaceB spaceC spaceD spaceE spaceF spaceG spaceH spaceI spaceJ spaceK spaceL spaceM spaceN spaceO spaceP spaceQ spaceR spaceS spaceT spaceU spaceV spaceW spaceX spaceY spaceZ