Quiet slipping along in a line, like a blooming girl's school on
the trot,
May suit the swell Club-men, my boy, but it isn't _my_ form by a
lot.
Don't I jest discumfuddle the donas, and bosh the old buffers as
prowl
Along green country roads at their ease, till they're scared by my
squeak, or my 'owl?

My "alarm" _is_ a caution I tell yer; it sounds like some shrill
old macaw,
Wot's bin blowed up with dynamite sudden; it gives yer a twist in
the jaw,
And a pain in the 'ed when you 'ear it. I laugh till I shake in my
socks
When I turn it on sharp on old gurls and they jump like a
Jack-in-the-box.

I give 'em Ta-ra-ra, I tell yer, and Boom-de-ray likewise, dear boy.
'Ev'n bless 'im as started that song, with that chorus,--a boon
and a joy!
Wy, the way as the werry words worrit respectables jest makes me
bust;
When you chuck it 'em as you dash by, it riles wus than the row
and the dust!

We lap up a rare lot of lotion, old man, in our spins out of town;
Pace, dust and chyike make yer chalky, and don't we just ladle it
down?