Nought need now surprise us!
"Lock! Lock! Lock!"
Faint cry, far before us!
Lot of toffs my efforts mock;
Menace us in chorus.
Swear they'll swamp us at the weir.
Fate there's no controlling,
But the Grand Old River Hand
Puts his faith in pol(l)ing!
Sit tight, my dear, and as we drop down with the tide towards the next lock, I'll sing you a new river-song to an old air. [Sings.