Down Harley Street

The butcher's boy whistles down Harley Street,

Whistles out of a broken heart;

His girl has jilted him, and the butcher

Sacked his job on the butcher-cart.

No girl, no job. It isn't decent

That he should whistle down Harley Street;

What right has he to keep on whistling

When life is so rotten that once was sweet?

His face shines red as a russet apple,

His walk has a swing, there's gold in his hair.

Harley Street waits for his jolly whistle,

Since life is a properly rotten affair.