But Political Pic-nics with fireworks, and plenty of swiz ain’t ’arf bad.
The palaver was sawdust and treacle. Old Bottleblue buzzed for a bit,
And a sniffy young Wiscount in barnacles landed wot ’e thought a ’it;
Said old Gladstone wos like Simpson’s weapon, a bit of a hass and all jor,
When a noisy young Rad in a wideawake wanted to give him wot for!
“Yah! boo! Turn ’im hout!” sings yours truly, a-thinkin’ the fun was at ’and,
But, bless yer! ’twas only a sputter. I can’t say the meeting looked grand.
Five thousand they reckoned us, Charlie, but if so I guess the odd three
Were a-spooning about in the halleys, or lappin’ up buns and Bohea.
The band and the ’opping wos prime though, and ’Arry in course wos all there.