And the neighbours wives are groaning.
Three peelers stood out on their lonely beat
And swung their staves as the sun went down,
They looked at their helmets and looked at their feet,
And now and then squinted round through the town:
For “cops” must hunt for men who are full,
And finding them, ’tis their duty to “pull”
Though the prisoners may start howling.
Three farmers were locked in a cell that night,
Who, loaded with “lush” as the sun went down;