Its Obstruction, and similar 'orrors, in course they hikes off to the Moors.
Small blame to 'em, CHARLIE, small blame to 'em, spite of the prigs and the boors!
Yet this 'ARRISON he sets his back up. Dry smug as can't 'andle a gun,
I'll bet Marlboro' 'Ouse to a broomstick, and ain't got no notion of Fun.
"Loves the Moors much too well for to carry one;" that's wot he says, sour old sap
Bet my boots as he can't 'it a 'aystack at twenty yards rise—eh, old chap?
Him sweet on the heather, my pippin, or partial to feather and fur,
So long as yer never kills nothink? Sech tommy-rot gives me the spur.
Yah! Scenery's all very proper, but where is the genuine pot
Who'd pad the 'oof over the Moors, if it weren't for the things to be shot?