I'm a maker of ballads right pretty; I write them right here in the street. You can buy them all over the city, yours for a penny a sheet. I'm a word pecker out of the printers; out of the dens of Gin lane. I'll write up a scene on a counter- confessions and sins in the main, boys, confessions and sins in the main. Then you'll find me in Madame Geneva's, keeping the demons at bay. There's nothing like gin for drowning them in, but they'll always be back on a hanging day. They come rattling over the cobbles. They sit on their coffins of black. Some are struck dumb, some gabble, top-heavy on brandy or sack. The pews are all full of fine fellows, and the hawker has set up her shop. As they're turning them off at the gallows, she'll be selling right under the drop, boys, selling right under the drop. Then you'll find me in Madame Geneva's, keeping the demons at bay. There's nothing like gin for drowning them in, but they'll always be back on a hanging day.