I don't mind a man as can 'oller a bit;
And if shillings are goin', I'd back you for shoutin',
Though your game's an Aunt Sally, all miss and no 'it.
But the blusterin' chap as keeps naggin' the boys on
To fight and get beat all for nothing's an ass.
And I'm certain o' this, that the wust kind o' poison
Is the stuff as you fellers 'ave lots of—that's gas!
What's Orme done to you? 'E can't 'elp a cove bettin'.
To get at 'im for that is a trifle too warm.
And poisonin' racers ain't my kind o' vettin'.