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Poem	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!
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