Which wales isn't in it for worrit, my love, with your poor old pal, SAIREY,
Along o' the Fam'ly," I says; "as things do seem to go that contrairey,
My services now ain't required, with 'adoptions' all over the shop,
From Brummagem, yus, and elsewheres; and I ast 'Where is this thing to stop?'
RITCHIE'S 'pick-up' was tryin', most tryin'; and as to those bad Irish brats,
As BALFOUR interjuced—dear! jest fancy our Party adopting small Pats!
And now this here Brummagem babby! You say he's a promising cheild,
Missis G., and 'you're learning to love him!' All this makes old SAIREY feel wild.
It's wus than kidnapping, this bizness of picking up 'Fondlings' all round.
You're nussing a wiper, I say, and you'll soon feel 'is bite, I'll be bound.