'Taint leaving old England we cares about,
'Taint cos we mis-spells what we knows,
But because all we light-fingered gentry
Hops around with a log on our toes.
These seven long years I've been serving now
And seven long more have to stay
All for bashing a bloke down our alley
And taking his ticker away.
Oh, had I the wings of a turtle-dove,
I'd soar on my pinions so high,
Straight back to the arms of my Polly love,
And in her sweet presence I'd die.
Now all my young Dookies and Duchesses,
Take warning from what I've to say:
Mind all is your own as you toucheses
Or you'll find us in Botany Bay.