Oh ! City girls are pale-like,
And proud-like, and cold-like.
And nineteen out of twenty
Have never been our way.
I tells them of the tall hills.
The green hills, the old hills,
Where hawthorns are a-blossoming,
And thrushes call all day.

Oh ! London is a fine place,
A big place, a rich place.
Where nineteen out of twenty
Of all the girls are fair.
But well I knows a white road,
A long road, a straight road.
That leads me into Bosbury ;
I'm wishing I was there !