There was a barber and his wife,
And he was beautiful
A proper artist with a knife,
But they transported him for life.
And he was beautiful...
He had this wife, y'see,
Pretty little thing,
Silly little nit,
Had her chance for the moon on a string.
Poor thing.
Poor thing.
There were these two, y'see,
Wanted her like mad,
One of 'em a judge, t'other one his beadle!
Every day they'd nudge and they'd wheedle!
But she wouldn't budge from her needle!
Too bad,
Pure thing.
So they merely shipped the poor blighter off south, they did,
Leavin' 'er with nothing but grief and a year-old kid!
Did she use her head even then? Oh no, God forbid!
Poor fool!
Ah, but there was worse yet to come, poor thing...
Well, Beadle calls on her all polite,
Poor thing,
Poor thing!
The judge, he tells her is all contrite,
He blames himself for her dreadful plight,
She must come straight to his house tonight,
Poor thing,
Poor thing!
Of course when she goes there, poor thing, poor thing,
They're 'avin' this ball all in masks!
There's no one she knows there, poor dear, poor thing!
She wanders tormented and drinks, poor thing!
The judge has repented, she thinks, poor thing!
'Oh, where is Judge Turpin,' she asks...
'E was there alright,
Only not so contrite!
She wasn't no match for such craft, y'see,
And everyone thought it so droll.
They figured she had to be daft, y'see,
So all of them stood there and laughed, y'see!
Poor soul!
Poor thing!
