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.

Chorus:

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.

Chorus:

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.

Chorus: