Quaker-meetings be jiggered, I say; if you're 'appy, my boy, give it tongue.
I tell yer we roused 'em a few, coming 'ome, with the comics we sung.
Hencoring a prime 'un, I somehow forgot to steer straight, and we fouled
The last 'eat of a race—such a lark! Oh, good lor', 'ow they chi-iked and 'owled!
There was honly one slight country-tong, Tommy Blogg, who's a bit of a hass,
Tried to splash a smart pair of swell "spoons" by some willers we 'appened to pass;
And the toff ketched the blade of Tom's scull, dragged 'im close, and jest landed 'im one!
Arter which Master Tom nussed his eye up, and seemed rayther out of the fun.
Sez the toff, "You're the pests of the river, you cads!" Well, I didn't reply,
'Cos yer see before gals, it ain't nice when a feller naps one in the eye;