Now merrily rolls the Coach along, 



Like a bird she seems to fly, 

 As the girls all look out from the roadside Inns, 



For a wink from the Dragsman's eye, 

 How they long for a ride with the man who's the pride 



Of each village through which he is borne, 

 On that Coach which he tools with so skilful a hand, 



While the Guard plays a tune on his horn. 



On that Coach, &c. 



How the girls all dote on the sight of the Coach, 



And the Dragsman's curly locks, 

 As he rattles along with eleven and four, 



And a petticoat on the box. 

 That box is his home, his teams are his pride, 



And he ne'er feels downcast or forlorn, 

 When he lists to the musical sound of the bars, 



And the tune from the shooter's horn. 



When he lists, &c. 



I have sung of the joys one feels on a Coach, 



And the beauty there is in a team, 

 So let us all hope they may ne'er be destroyed 



By the rascally railroads and steam. 

 There are still some good friends who'll stick by the old trade, 



And who truly their absence would mourn, 

 " So here's a health to the Dragsman, success to the bars, 



And the Guard who blows his horn." 



So here's a health, &c. 



