Life is with such all beer and skittles.
They are not difficult to please
About their victuals.
I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.
Should ever anything be missed - milk, coals, umbrellas, brandy - the cat's pitched into with a boot or anything that's handy.
I can not sing the old songs now! It is not that I deem them low, 'Tis that I can't remember how They go.
I've read in many a novel, that unless they've souls that grovel-- Folks prefer in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.
The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, That wholly consisted of lines like these.
The auld wife sat at her ivied door, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees...
But ah! disasters have their use; And life might e'en be too sunshiny...
But what is coffee, but a noxious berry, Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?
Precious to me—it is the Dinner Bell. Oh blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer...
Oh Beer! Oh Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass! Names that should be on every infant's tongue! Shall days and months and years and centuries pass, And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?
Meaning, however, is no great matter.
The heart which grief hath cankered, Hath one unfailing remedy - the Tankard.
Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards.
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