THE BILL STICKER.

I’m Sammy Slap, the Bill Sticker, and you must all agree, Sirs,
I stick to bus’ness like a trump, and bus’ness sticks to me, Sirs,
The low folks call me Plasterer, and they desarves a banging,
Becos, genteely speaking, vhy, my trade is Paper-Hanging.

Chorus.
With my paste! paste! paste!
All the world is puffing, so I paste! paste! paste!

Round Nelson’s statty, Charing Cross, vhen any thing’s the go, Sirs,
You’ll always find me at my post, a sticking up the Posters,
I’ve hung Macready twelve feet high,—and though it may seem funny,
Day after day against the valls, I’ve plastered Mrs. Honey!

Now often, in the vay of trade, and I don’t care a farden,
Arter I have been vell paid to hang for Common Garden,
Old Drury Lane has called me in, with jealousy to cover ’em,
And sent me round vith their own bills, to go and plaster over ’em.

In search of houses, old and new, I’m always on the caper,
And werry kindly gives ’em all, a coat or two of paper;
I think I’ve kivered all the valls round London, though I preach it,
If they’d let me kiver old St. Paul’s, so help me Bob, I’d reach it.

I’m not like some in our trade,—they desarve their jackets laced, Sirs,
They stick up half their master’s bills, and sells the rest for vaste, Sirs,
Now, honesty’s best policy, vith a good name to retire vith,
So vot I doesn’t use myself, my old gal lights the fire vith!

I’m proud to say there’s Helen Tree, the stage’s great adorner,
I’ve had the honor of posting her in every hole and corner,
And Helen Faucit—bless her eyes! ve use her pretty freely,
And paste’s Madam Vestris bang atop of Mr. Keeley!

Sometimes I’m jobbing for the Church, with Charitable Sermons,
And sometimes for theatres, vith the English and the Germans;
To me, in course, no odds it is, as long as I’m a vinner,
Vhether I works for a Saint, or hangs up for a Sinner.

The paste I use, I makes myself, and I’ll stick to this, however,
That vhen my bills, I’ve put them up, they’ll face both vind and veather,
I comes the fancy work, though they’re up, mind, in a twinkle,
I never tucks the corners in, nor leaves a blessed wrinkle,

Then, surely, you vill all allow, I am a man of taste, Sirs,
I arn’t no Pastry-cook, although I deals in puffs and paste, Sirs,
Vhenever you may have a job, to show how I desarve you,
About the town through thick and thin, I’ll brush along to sarve you!

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