Alack! and well-a-day!
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor;
We are all to grief a prey,
Mr Mayor:
They are pulling NEWGATE down,
That structure of renown,
Which so long hath graced our town,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.

Antiquarians think’t a scandal,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor;
It would shock a Goth or Vandal,
They declare:
What! destroy the finest Lion
That ever Man set eye on!
’Tis a deed all must cry fie on,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.

Saint Andrew’s Parishioners,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,
Loud blame the Jail-Commissioners,
Mr Mayor;
To pull down a Pile so splendid,
Shews their powers are too extended
And The Act must be amended,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.

If Blackett Street they’d level,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,
Or with Bond Street play the devil,
Who would care:
But on Newgate’s massive walls,
When Destruction’s hammer falls,
For our sympathy it calls,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.

’Tis a Pile of ancient standing,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,
Deep reverence commanding,
Mr Mayor;
Men of Note and Estimation,
In their course of Elevation,
Have in it held a station,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.

’Tis a first-rate kind of College,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,
Where is taught much useful knowledge,
Mr Mayor:
When our fortunes “gang aglee,”
If worth Mr Gee
Does but on us turn his key,
All’s soon well, Mr Mayor.

In beauty, nought can match it,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor:
Should you think we throw the Hatchet,
Mr Mayor,
John Ad—n, with ease,
(In purest Portugueze)
Will convince you, if you please
To consult him, Mr Mayor.

He’ll prove t’ye, in a trice,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,
’Tis a pearl of great price,
Mr Mayor:
For of ancient wood or stone,
The value—few or none,
Can better tell than John,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.

Of this Edifice bereft,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,
To the Neighbourhood what’s left?
Mr Mayor,
The Nuns’ Gate, it is true,
Still rises to our view,
But that Modern Babel, few
Much admire, Mr Mayor.

True, a Building ’tis, unique,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,
A charming fancy-freak,
Mr Mayor:
But candour doth impel us,
To own, that Strangers tell us,
The Lodge of our Odd-Fellows,
They suppos’d it Mr Mayor.

Still, if Newgate’s doom’d to go,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,
To the Carliol Croft—heigho-ho!
Mr Mayor,
As sure as you’re alive,
(And long, sir, may you thrive,)
The shock we’ll ne’er survive,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor.

Then pity our condition,
Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor,
And stop it’s demolition,
Mr Mayor;
The Commissioners restrain,
From causing us such pain,
And we’ll pay, and ne’er complain,
The Jail-Cess, Mr Mayor.