Chorus: It's all well an' good for to sit in the wood,
An' ter watch the streamlet flow,
But when all's said an' done, it ain't rollickin' fun.
An' I calls it very slow.

When I fust of all came to the village,
I got on all right for a bit,
But I found it so 'orribly lonesome,
I verry near once 'ad a fit.
There was one or two 'oppers from London,
An they precious soon did a guy,
I was left all alone wiv the natives,
But of cockney's they allus fight shy.

Chorus: An' as for the speech, well, I did try ter teach,
A cove to tork English but 'e,
When I starts for to speak, 'as the confounded cheek
Ter say 'e don't understand me.

No more rural retreats for yer 'umble,
No more life in the country for me,
Give me Whitechapel, Noo Cut an' 'Ackney,
The Thames and the beautiful Lea.
Just compare one of them village 'igh streets,
Wiv Mile End Road, Saturday night,
Why, yer can't of all that's ridicklus,
That would be considered the 'ight.

Chorus: Why, the pubs close at ten, if you're still thirsty then,
You must take on the village pump,
An' the cuckoo 'e sings which is one of them fings,
As gives me the bloomin' 'ump.