1

I'm a rambling wretch of poverty, from Tip'ry town I came.
'Twas poverty compelled me first to go out in the rain;
In all sorts of weather, be it wet or be it dry,
I am bound to get my livelihood or lay me down and die.

Refrain:
Then combine your humble ditties as from tavern to tavern we steer;
Like every honest fellow, I drinks my lager beer;
Like every jolly fellow, I takes my whiskey clear,
I'm a rambling wretch of poverty, and the son of a gambolier —
I'm the son of a, son of a, son of a, son of a, son of a gambolier.

2

I once was tall and handsome, and was so very neat;
They thought I was too good to live, most good enough to eat;
But now I'm old my coat is torn, and poverty holds me fast.
And every girl turns up her nose as I go wandering past.
Refrain:

3

I'm a rambling wretch of poverty, from Tip'ry town I came;
My coat I bought from an old Jew shop way down in Maiden Lane;
My hat I got from a sailor lad just eighteen years ago,
And my shoes I picked from an old dust heap, which every one shunned but me!
Refrain: