or 'Which Bee Wright & Which Be Wrong'

Behold a' agen female who's
Been almost brought to ruins,
All through a good kind hearted man
And his officious doin's
On Sundays I could sell my fruit
And no one seemed to mind,
But the busy bee flopped down on me
And three times I've been fined.

Chorus: How doth the Reverend Busy Bee,
Improve each shining hour,
By worritin' and harrassin' and finin' and embarrasin'
The hard, hard working poor.

Six days a week were not enough
As sure as my names Grundy,
I barely manage to exist
By selling of a Sunday,
Why cant 'e tackle them rich coves
Wot keeps their open shop,
And not be down on us poor folk
And our living try to stop.


It seems to me, of us poor folk
He wants to make a clearance,
But do you call it charity
This wretched interference.
Let Parliament decide the pint
By a Sunday Trading Bill,
And then I'll give in like a lamb
But till then I never will.


He may be right (Bee Wright.) he may be wrong
By causing all this riot,
But whether he be right or wrong,
I wish he would be quiet.
I don't think that 'e can be right
Or his error he would see;
I fancy he'd his humming stop
And become an humble bee.

Spoken after the 4th verse - Ah, its wery 'ard on the strugglin poor, you may laugh, but wots fun to you is death to us; - Three times I've been fined as sure as I'm a lady. -The first time I was found it was only a sixpence, but the third time it was five bob; Tho' I will say that his wasup, the magingstrate was loth to do it. Why does the busy Bee select them wot can least afford to be found? I assure you on the word of a lady that if it wasn't for dispogin' of my fruit and wegi-bubles on a Sunday that I couldn't live, I couldn't indeed.
I wish I was a M. P. that's all. l'd make a act to put sich people in the river, I would. Don't 'e say as 'ow 'e's a workin' to stop Sunday tradin'? and don't 'e go about on a Sunday a doin' of it? Then 'e's workin' on a Sunday and ought to be found too. - Is that what you call charity and religion? Wot, wi' the perlice a moving us on wi' our barrers on week days and the busy Bee a buzzin' round us on Sundays, I dont know what it'll end in, but I'm afraid it'll be the work'us.


Written and composed by Arthur Lloyd - 1873
Performed by Arthur Lloyd (1840 - 1904)
From Music Hall Lyrics Collection
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