On each market day, sir, the folks to the Quay, sir,
Go flocking with beards they have seven days worn,
And round a small grate, sir, in crowds theay all wait sir,
To get them-selves shaved in a rotative turn.

Old soldiers on sticks, sir, upon politics, sir,
Debate till at length they quite heated are grown.
Nay nothing escapes, sir, until Madam Scrape, sir,
cries "Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down. 

A medley this place is of those who sell laces,
With fine shirtneck buttons, and good cabbage nets:
Where matchmen at meeting give each a kind greeting,
And ask one another how trade with them sets;

Joined in with Tom Hoggers and little Bob Nackers,
who wander the streets in their fuddleing gills:
And those folks with bags, sir, who buy up old rags, sir,
That deal in fly cages and paper windmills. 

There pitmen with baskets and fine posey waistcoats,
Discourse about nought but who puts and hews best;
There keelmen just landed swear "May they be stranded"
if the're not shaved first while their keel's at the fest;

With face full of coal dust, would frighten one almost,
Throw off hat and wig while they usurp the chair;
Whilst others stand looking and think it provoking,
But, for insult, to oppose them none dare. 

When under the chin, sir, she trucks the cloth in, sir,
Their old quid they'll pop in the peajacket cuff;
And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting
And looking around with an air fierce and bluff.

Such tales as go round, sir, would surely confound, sir,
And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise;
But when she prepares, sir, take off the hairs, sir,
With lather she whitens them up to the eyes. 

No sooner the razor is laid on the face, sir.
Then painful distortions is seen on the brow;
But if they complain, sir, they find it in vain, sir,
She'll tell them "there's nought but what patience can do."

And as she scrapes round 'em, if she by chance wound 'em,
They'll cry out as though she'd be reav'd them of life.
"Od smash yor brains, woman! aw find the bloods comin!
Awd rather been shav'd, rather been shav'd with an awd gully, awd gully knife." 

For all they can say, sir, she still rasps away, sir,
And sweeps round their jaw the chop-tor-turing tool;
Till they in a pet, sir, request her to whet, sir;
But she gives them for answer "sit still ye fond fool!"

For all their repining, their twisting and twining,
She forth with proceeds till she's mown off the hair;
When finished, cries "there, sir," then straight from the chair, sir,
They'll jump crying "dare-say you've scraped the bone bare."