THE [SUFFERING?] It ain't' cos they don't give us grub enough, It ain't' cos they don't give us clo'es: It's a-cos all we light-fingred gentery (_Whistle_). Goes about with a log on our toes. THE PRAYER. Oh, had I the wings of a turtle-dove, Across the broad ocean I'd fly, Right into the arms of my Policy love (_Whistle_). And on her soft bosum I'd lie! THE MORRELL. Now, all you young wi-counts and duchesses, Take warning by wot I've to say, And mind all your own wot you touches is, (_Whistle_). Or you'll jine us in Botinny Bay! Oh!!! Ri-chooral, ri-chooral, ri-addiday, Ri-chooral, ri-chooral, iday.