If ever you by word of mouth
Enquired of Mister Forth
The way to somewhere in the South,
He always sent you North.
With little boys his beat along
He loved to stop and play;
He loved to send old ladies wrong,
And teach their feet to stray.

For weeks he trod his self-made beats
Through Newport, Gerrard, Bear,
Greek, Rupert, Frith, Dean, Poland Streets,
And into Golden Square:
But all, alas, in vain, for when
He tried to learn the way
Of little boys or grown-up men
They none of them would say.

Their eyes would flash — their teeth would grind —
Their lips would tightly curl —
They'd say, "Thy way thyself must find,
Thou misdirecting churl!"
And, similarly, also, when
He tried a foreign friend;
Italians answered, "Il balen" —
The French, "No comprehend."

The Russ would say with gleaming eye
"Sevastopol!" and groan.
The Greek said, Tvπτω, Tνπτoμαi
Tνπτω, Tνπτεiv, Tνπτωv,
To wander thus for many a year
That Crusher never ceased —
The Men of London dropped a tear,
Their anger was appeased.

At length exploring gangs were sent
To find poor Forth's remains —
A handsome grant by Parliament
Was voted for their pains.
To seek the poor policeman out
Bold spirits volunteered,
And when at length they solved the doubt
The Men of London cheered.