After you’ve drunk to your country’s King,
 After you’ve drunk to the Forces,
And pledged your Queen, and your love—same thing!—
 And the best of your hunting horses;
Fill up your glasses again, my boys,
 Here is a toast of my own;
Drink to the giver of half your joys—
 A Health to the Chaperone!

We that have followed the light Love-Game,
 Flirting as Fortune allowed us,
How shall we thank her, this generous dame,
 Who never would corner or crowd us?
Fill up your glasses again, young bloods,
 Kneel at the steps of her throne,
Down with the wine in red roseate floods,
 To the Health of the Chaperone!

Hand the old lady the mayonnaise,
 Claret and champagne-cup her,
Then you may wander your own sweet ways,
 Knowing she’s safe at supper!
Fill up your glasses again, I say,
 To the tact that is bred in the bone!
To the lady who knows how long to stay!
 To the thoughtful old Chaperone!

E’en Mistress Grundy, with doubts to spare,
 Has never been known to doubt her;
It is our fault if we sit on the stair
 Or the terrace outside without her!
So fill up your glasses, good boys all,
 And for some of your sins atone
By pledging the woman who sits by the wall—
 Long life to the Chaperone!