O, won't I just work up Sir Wilfrid, and won't I just wake Mister Caine?
But there, you can't trust anybody, these times, that's exceedingly plain.
And you too, my own bringer-up, to turn me out of house and of home!
Oho, you unnatural parent! And where shall we wanderers roam—
Poor Taffy, and young (Registration) Bill—look at him limping!—and Me?
And the other ones tucked up inside, and especially that impudent Three,
The Irish, the Scotch, and the London boys, whom you so favour and pet,
Are laughing at us from the window. But, drat them, their turn may come yet.
They may have to turn out, after all! Billy Budget of course is all right,
For you fought for your favourite che-ild, and, by Jingo, it has been a fight!