We wos snaking along t'other day, reglar clump of hus--BUGGINS and
me,
MUNGO 'IGGINS, and BILLY BOLAIR, SAMMY SNIPE, and TOFF JONES, and
MICK SHEE;
All the right rorty sort, and no flies; when along comes a gurl on
a 'orse.
Well, we spread hout, and started our squeakers, and gave 'er a
rouser, in course.

'Orse shied, and backed into a 'edge, and it looked so remarkable
rum,
That we _couldn't_ 'elp doing a larf, though the gurl wos
pertikler yum-yum;
We wos ready to 'elp, 'owsomever, when hup comes a swell, and he
swore,
And--would you believe it, old pal?--went for BUGGINS, and give
'im wot for!!!

Nasty sperrit, old man; nothink sportsmanlike, surely, about sech
a hact!
Them's the sort as complains of hus Cyclists, mere crackpots as
ain't got no tact.
We all did a guy like greased lightning; you _can_ when you're
once on your wheel--
Stout bobbies carn't run down a "Safety," and gurls can do nothink
but squeal.

That's where Wheelin' gives yer the pull! Still it's beastly to
think a fine sport
And a smart lot of hathleets like hus must be kiboshed by mugs of