Poem by Andrew Barton Paterson

Policeman G.

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!

1. A Grain of Desert Sand
2. Under the Shadow of Kiley’s Hill
3. That Half-Crown Sweep
4. White Cockatoos
5. The Two Devines

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