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