No chance had he for music that’s developed by a crank,

No chance had he at sculpture, nor a penny in the bank.

The pea-nut trade was languid, and for him too full of risk;

He thought the work on railways for his blood was rather brisk.

The sole profession left him to assuage his stomach’s woe,

It struck him in meandering the city to and fro,

Was surely that of shovelling away the rich man’s snow.

And then P. Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle

Sought out a city thoroughfare, the swellest of the swell.

He stole a shovel, and he found a broom he thought would do,

Then rang the massive front-door bell of Stuyvesant Depew.

“I wanta shov’ da snow,” he said, when there at last appeared

Fitzjohn Augustus Higgins, who in Birmingham was reared,

A man by all in low estate much hated and much feared.

“Go wi,” said Fitz, with gesture bold. “Yer cahn’t do nothink ere,

Yer bloomin’, hugly furriner!” he added, with a sneer.

“Hi thinks as ’ow you dagoes is the cuss o’ this ’ere land,

With wuthy citizens like me ’most starved on every ’and.

Hi vows hif I’d me wi at all hi’d order hout a troop,

Hand send the bloomin’ lot o’ yer ’ead over ’eels in soup.

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