Up I came with my little lot

 The Music Hall Songster (1892)

Some pals of mine were going for the day,
For a bit of a blow out Chingford way,
Twas a “go as you please” along the route, 
And a first-class prize for the best turn out
They came in carts and wagonettes as well,
And which look’d best it was very hard to tell;
Says Brown “Give the prize now, for we cannot wait –
Stop! here comes Ginger, and he’s not too late.”
  
Then up I came with my little lot, 
And the lads yelled out, “Hooray!”
Some chairs for me pals,and cushions for the gals,
And the hearthrug looked all gay.
There were fourteen of us, and we all had whips,
And the missis she had hold of the brake;
I put ‘em all to bed, for everybody said
That my lot took the cake.
  
 When we got down ’twas beautiful and warm
 We quite took the hotel there by storm;
 We’d swings, and booze and cocoanut shies,
 Then we all went in for the swearing prize.
 Each lot as came all pulled up in a row,
 And one by one we then all had a go
 And oh! the language, how the beauties swore!
 Says Brown, “Hold hard a bit, there’s one lot more.”
  
 Then up I came with my little lot,
 And the air went blue for miles;
 The trees all shook, and the copper took his hook,
 And down came all the tiles;
 Then the donkeys cocked their tails and did a guy,
 And brayed as if their hearts would break;
 We asked Dick Dunn, and he told every one
 That my lot took the cake.
  
 For tea at six o’clock we all prepared,
 And we didn’t care how the people stared;
 The ladies stood in the gigs and flys,
 And the next event was the “Beauty prize;”
 But what with the dust and all their dresses spoiled,
 The beauties all looked just a little soiled.
 They tried to look sober, and smiled serene,
 When Smith calls out, “Now which is the queen?”
  
 Then up I came with my little lot,
 And I says, “This can’t be matched –
 She fell off her moke, and her funnibone is broke,
 And her boko’s a little bit scratched;
 She’s sixteen stone, and it’s every bit her own,
 And the colour on her cheeks isn’t fake,
 She’s forty round the calf, then Brown began to laugh,
 And my lot took the cake.
  
 Next for home we started, all of us, hooray
 And the pubs we called at along the way.
 We burnt red fire just to let them see
 We’d all come home from a jolly good spree.
 To believe our tales they all of ‘em refused;
 Some said “Get out, why none of you are boozed.”
 Says Brown, “I’ll show you if we’re not,
 Hold on a bit, where’s Ginger’s lot?”
  
 Then up I came with my merry lot,
 And Brown says, “Where have they gone?”
 They were all of a heap, and every one asleep,
 With their bonnets and things all torn.
 The P’lice got stretchers, and away they went,
 And I’m jiggered if they would wake;
 Say I, “Who says that we’re not half boozed?”
 For my lot took the cake.