Policeman G.

A poem by Andrew Barton Paterson

Air: "Widow McGrath"


To Policeman G. the Inspector said:
"When you pass the 'shops' you must turn your head;
If you took a wager, that would be a sin;
So you'll earn no stripes if you run them in."
Mush-a-ring-tiy-ah,
Fol-de-diddle-doh!

To the House Committee, the Inspector said:
"'Tis a terrible thing how the gamblers spread,
For they bet on the steeple, and they bet on the Cup,
And the magistrates won't lock them up."
Mush-a-ring-tiy-ah,
Fol-de-diddle-doh!

But Policeman G., as he walks his beat,
Where ghe gamblers are, up and down the street,
Says he: "What's the use to be talkin' rot,
If they'd make me a sergeant, I could cop the lot!"
With my ring-tiy-ah,
Fol-de-diddle-doh!

"But, begad if you start to suppress the 'shop',
Then the divil only knows where you're going to stop;
For the rich and the poor, they would raise a din,
If at Randwick I ran fifty thousand in."
Mush-a-ring-tiy-ah,
Fol-de-diddle-doh!

"Though ye must not box, nor shpit, nor bet,
I'll find my way out to Randwick yet;
For I'm shtandin' a pound, and it's no disgrace,
On Paddy Nolan's horse, for the Steeplechase!"
Mush-a-ring-tiy-ah,
Fol-de-diddle-doh!