'Twos my own 'appy 'unting ground, CHARLIE, until I could fair
feel my feet;
If you want to try wheels, take the Park; I am sure it'll do you a
treat.

I did funk the danger, at fust; but these Safeties don't run yer
much risk,
And arter six weeks in the Park, I could treadle along pooty brisk;
And _then_ came the barney, my bloater! I jined 'arf a dozen prime
pals,
And I tell you we now are the dread of our parts, and espessh'lly
the gals.

No Club, mate, for me; that means money, and rules, sportsman
form, and sech muck.
I likes to pick out my own pals, go permiskus, and trust to
pot-luck.
A rush twelve-a-breast _is_ a gammock, twelve squeakers a going
like one;
But "rules o' the road" dump you down, chill yer sperrits, and
spile all the fun.

The "Charge o' the Light Brigade," CHARLIE? Well, mugs will keep
spouting it still;
But wot _is_ it to me and my mates, treadles loose, and a-chargin'
down 'ill?
Dash, dust-clouds, wheel-whizz, whistles, squeakers, our 'owls,
women's shrieks, and men's swears!
Oh, I tell yer it's 'Ades let loose, or all Babel a busting
down-stairs.