Upon the ways of life I look with keen observant eye.
So looked three centuries ago old England’s wondrous Will,
Whose magic pen immortal made the precincts of Gad’s Hill,
For Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name, my boys,
Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name.
Not to be poet I pretend—there are but two or three:
And dear old Thackeray’s caustic touch is not the thing for me.
I could have sketched in modern prose with tolerable skill,
The wild young Prince, and reckless Poins, and Falstaff on Gad’s Hill,
For Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name, my boys,