I once knew a man and he was an encyclopedia
He could tell you the weight of the moon to an ounce
And the name of every star
He'd stand on a slope with a big telescope and squint at Venus hard
Till all the Pa's of the girls in Mars complained at Scotland Yard
He used to say that the Milky Way was at Cowes in the Isle of Wight
He anlaysed fogs from the Isle of Dogs, and set the Thames alight
They had to admit he'd got the wit and learning in his mind
Of Europe, Ireope, Lorop, Stirrup, and Jalop all combined.

Chorus: And he knew all about etymology,
Hebrew, Shebrew, Jew-ju-ology
Syntax, tintacks, hobnails and boot-jacks
He was as full as a Pickford's van
Those who cracked and backed up Edison
Swore his jaw was more than medicine
Simply because people said he was
A durned learned scientific man.

He could jaw for a week in Ancient Greek
And spout on the ages dark
He'd pinch your watch to indulge in Scotch
And Welsh you at Kempton Park
He'd bolt and bunk like a chinese junk
And dance a German Waltz
And inflate his lungs with various tongues
From Dutch to Epsom Salts
He'd a beak like a parrot, the colour of a carrot
With a Roman wart on top
A swan-like throat, like an old mud boat
And a breath like a chemist shop
A long moustache like weeds in a marsh
And a temper sour and crabby
He'd nap and scrap with Russian or a Jap
And swear like a London cabby.


He could tell from a speck of mud upon your neck
The place where you were born
And just from the touch he could say how much
Your bags would fetch in pawn
He'd guess your weight by the size of your pate
And what seemed still more strange
He'd boldly assert by the wrinkles of your shirt
That you required a change
He was nearly as quick at arithmetic
As a Chatham and Dover train
He had grammar and addition, and bunk-a-doodleition
And division and collision on the brain
He collared a degree at a University
And all the Dons did frighten
By winning a prize for a book that size
On 'Insect life in Brighton.'


He could draw a map, a barrow, or a trap
And square a circle or a slop
And he could swear, from the colour of the air
To the nearest fried-fish shop
Around his room a sweet perfume
Invariably did dwell
That scent one night to the house set light
And blew the town to Halifax
When the coroner was told the place was cold
He came up to the scratch
They found one rib that looked like a squib
And smelt like a brimstone match
They sniffed and yelled and an inquest held
Those gentlemen in fustian
Said they, 'By gom! - he's busted from
Spontaneous combustion.'

Written and composed by Charles Osborne - 1895
Performed by T.E. Dunville (1868-1924)
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