Under the printed list of fares the Handsom Cabby stands
A bold and cheeky man is he, the reins are in his hands
When he bustles through the mighty throng and traffic of the Strand
His whip is neat, and thin, and long, his gloves are dirty tan
He's fond, you bet, of heavy wet, but drinks what'e'er he can
And other cabs he loves to race, and he fears not Pickford's van.

Run in - bailed out - he's often tight, and beaks his features know
They cannot make him take the pledge, he says, 'It's beastly slow.'
And he's vexed when Mrs Podger pays a fare he thinks too low
And growls, 'She's a blamed old fool' as he drives to a well known door
And cries ... 'Been done, by George ...
Then to the nearest pub he'll fly, and chaff on the tap-room floor.

He drives on Sunday, folks to church, where girls sit with the boys
And the dresses that are worn by each are elegant and choice
They wear their long twelve button gloves which make their hearts rejoice
And hats with ostrich feathers trimmed and birds of paradise
He takes his fare, and to the rank to meet his pals he flies
And from their pocket-pistols they all wet their 'other eyes'.

Driving, his voice halloing, off then again he goes
At morning, p'r'aps, to pay the hire, he's had to pawn his clothes
Somebody driven - somebody done - he's earned his night's repose.

Performed by G.H. Chirgwin (1854-1922)
From Music Hall Lyrics Collection
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