Well! I'll sing you 'That Piggish Child.'" "Yes, yes, 'That Piggish Child,'" cried everyone.
The uproar was beginning again.

Lantier was forgotten.

The ladies prepared their glasses and their knives for accompanying the chorus.
They laughed beforehand, as they looked at the zinc-worker, who steadied himself on his legs as he put on his most vulgar air.

Mimicking the hoarse voice of an old woman, he sang: "When out of bed each morn I hop, I'm always precious queer; I send him for a little drop To the drinking-ken that's near.
A good half hour or more he'll stay, And that makes me so riled, He swigs it half upon his way: What a piggish child!" And the ladies, striking their glasses, repeated in chorus in the midst of a formidable gaiety: "What a piggish child! What a piggish child!" Even the Rue de la Goutte-d'Or itself joined in now.

The whole neighborhood was singing "What a piggish child!" The little clockmaker, the grocery clerks, the tripe woman and the fruit woman all knew the song and joined in the chorus.