No 28 THE LAST OF THE SINGERS

1 I reckon the days is departed, When folks 'ud a listened to me, And I feels like as one broken-hearted, A-thinking o' what used to be. And I don't know as much be amended, Than was in them merry old Times, When, wi' pipes and good ale, folks attended, To me and my purty old rhymes, CHORUS: To me and my purty old rhymes. 2 'Tis true, I be cruel asthmatic I've lost every tooth i' my head; And my limbs be that crim'd wi' rheumatic D'rsay I were better in bed. Oh my! all the world be for reading Newspapers, and books and what not; Sure—'tis only conceitedness breeding, And the old singing man is forgot. CHORUS: And the old singing man is forgot. 3 I reckon that wi' my brown fiddle I'd go from this cottage to that; All the youngsters 'ud dance in the middle, Their pulses and feet, pit-a-pat. I cu'd zing, if you'd stand me the liquor, All the night, and 'ud never give o'er My voice—I don't deny it getting thicker, But never exhausting my store. CHORUS: But never exhausting my store. 4 'Tis politics now is the fashion As sets folks about by the ear. And slops makes the poorest of lushing, No zinging for me wi'out beer. I reckon the days be departed For such jolly gaffers as I, Folks never will be so light-hearted As they was in the days that's gone by. CHORUS: As they was in the days that's gone by. 5 O Lor! what wi' their edication, And me—neither cypher nor write; But in zinging the best in the nation And give the whole parish delight. I be going, I reckon, full mellow To lay in the Churchyard my head; So say—God be wi' you, old fellow! The last o' the Zingers is dead. CHORUS: The last o' the Zingers is dead.