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.