The butiful River's a-running to Town,
It never runs up, but allers runs down,
Weather it rains, or weather it snos;
And where it all cums from, noboddy nose.
The young swell Boatmen drest in white,
To their Mothers' arts must be a delite;
At roein or skullin the gals is sutch dabs,
For they makes no Fowls and they ketches no Crabs.
The payshent hangler sets in a punt,
Willee ketch kold? I hopes as he wunt.
I wotches him long, witch I states is fax,
He dont ketch nothin but Ticklebacks.
The prudent Ferryman sets under cover,
Waiting to take me from one shore to t'other;
I calls out "Hover!" and hover he roes,
If he aint sober then hover we goes.
When it's poring with rane and a tempest a-blowin,
A penny don't seem mutch for this here rowin;
And wen the River's as ruff as the Sea,
I thinks of the two I'd sooner be me.
For when I'm at work at Ampton or Lea,
Waitin at dinner, or waitin at tea,
I gits as much from a yewthful Pair
As he gits in a day for all that there.
Then let me bless my lucky Star
That made me a Waiter and not a Tar;
And the werry nex time I've a glass of old Sherry,
I'll drink to the pore chap as roes that 'ere Ferry.
