Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh! We are the foul night-washers, and who, By the Seven Lovely sins are you? Here we sit by the river reeds, Rinsing the linen that reeks and bleeds, And craving the help our labor needs. Come, Sir Fop, fall to, fall to! Show us for once what you can do! One day there'll be washing enough for you. Wade in, wade in, where the river runs Clear in the moonlight over the stones! It'll wash the ache from your scrofulous bones. Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh! We are the gossips of fame, and who By the Sinners' Litany are you? Wade in, wade in! The water is cold, The stains are deep, and the linen is old; But surely the sons of the town are bold! Work for us here till the break of day At washing the stains of the dead away, And you shall be merry, come what may! From now till your ninetieth year begins, You shall sin the Seven Lovely sins, While wearing the virtue a cardinal wins. Refuse, and your arms shall be broken and wried, To dangle like fenders over the side Of an empty ship on the harbor tide! They shall gather a waist in their grip no more, As you wander the wide world over and o'er, With the curs at your heels from door to door. With only a stranger to cover your face, You shall die in the streets of an outcast race, And your linen be washed in the market-place! Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh! We are the Scavenger Saints, but who In the name of the Shadowy Kin are you? MR. MOON: A SONG OF THE LITTLE PEOPLE. O Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? Down on the hilltop, Down in the glen, Out in the clearin', To play with little men? Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? O Mr. Moon, Hurry up your stumps! Don't you hear Bullfrog Callin' to his wife, And old black Cricket A-wheezin' at his fife? Hurry up your stumps, And get on your pumps! Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? O Mr. Moon, Hurry up along! The reeds in the current Are whisperin' slow; The river's a-wimplin' To and fro. Or you'll miss the song! Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? O Mr.
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