He sat on the corner of Bevington Brook Astride of his old packing crate The three dancing dolls at the end of his plank As he croons with a smile on his face Come day, go day Wish, in my heart, it were Sunday Drinking buttermilk all the week But whisky on a Sunday His tired old hands treat the wooden beam As the dolls they danced to a cheer A better show now you never have seen In the pivvy on New Brighton pier In 1905 old Seth Davy died And his songs were heard no more The three dancing dolls in the jowler bin ended And the plank went to mend the back door