I used to live in Jermyn Street,
Upon the seventh floor.
I occupied a charming suite,
Bed, bath, and boudoir, all complete;
That flat is mine no more!
For in my lute appeared a rift:
They let the postman use the lift!

Was it for this I had to pay
Three hundred pounds a year?
I never shall forget the day
A relative arrived to stay
(First cousin to a peer);
My word! How Aunt Eliza sniff'd!
She met a postman in the lift!

" What! " she demanded, " must I ride
With common men like him? "
She drew her scornful skirts aside,
Her smelling-bottle she applied,
She shook in ev'ry limb.
" Be good enough, " she said, " to sift
The lower orders from the lift! "

" Good Goddard! Fellow, " I exclaimed,
" Is there no public stair?
Are there no regulations framed
To make a working-man ashamed
To breathe his betters' air?
To anarchy we surely drift
When common postmen use the lift! "

In vain I claim my legal rights,
My landlord won't give way.
He says his pity it excites
To see men scaling seven flights
So many times a day.
To other chambers I must shift,
Where postmen never use the lift!