Halloo, Old Scuttle!
Halloo, old scuttle! good old soul,
What’s become of all your coal?
“Why the tongs he came with a gobbledy-gun,
And took my coals out, one by one;
And the blaze ran in with a tricksy-spire
And set the pretty things a-fire;
And the blower came with a roaring-roar,
And made them burn up more and more;
And then the poker with koppitty-hop,
He poked their ashes and made ’em drop—
And that, O Gobbledy-Koppitty-dole!
Is what’s become of all my coal.”