[A burglar, who was recently arrested, was proved to have a yacht of his own, on which he went sailing when not on burgling bent. Doubtless, in the fulness of time, the noble army of cracksmen will thus carol in a Gilbertian strain.]
Air—Policemen’s Chorus (“Pirates of Penzance.”)
When the window “prising” burglar’s not a-burgling—not a-burgling,
He doesn’t rush to some mere rural spot,
And listen to the rivulet a-gurgling—’let a-gurgling,
But skims along the ocean in his yacht.
When his “lay” has been of “Ooftish” most productive—most productive,
And he finds the land is getting rather “hot,”
Then he tries a pastime soothing and instructive—and instructive,
For he bounds across the billows in his yacht.