 | Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover |  |
LOVE AND LIQUOR.
A GREEK ALLEGORY.
Oh sure, 'twould amaze yiz,
How one Mister Theseus
Deserted a lovely young lady of owld:
On a dissolute Island,
All lonely and silent,
She sobbed herself sick, as she sat in the cowld.
Oh, you'd think she was kilt,
As she roar'd—with the quilt
Wrapp'd round her in haste as she jump'd out of bed,
And ran down to the coast,
Where she look'd like a ghost,
Though 'twas he was departed—the vagabone fled.
And she cried “Well-a-day!
Sure my heart it is gray:
They're deceivers, them sojers, that goes on half-pay.”
How one Mister Theseus
Deserted a lovely young lady of owld:
On a dissolute Island,
All lonely and silent,
She sobbed herself sick, as she sat in the cowld.
206
As she roar'd—with the quilt
Wrapp'd round her in haste as she jump'd out of bed,
And ran down to the coast,
Where she look'd like a ghost,
Though 'twas he was departed—the vagabone fled.
And she cried “Well-a-day!
Sure my heart it is gray:
They're deceivers, them sojers, that goes on half-pay.”
While abusing the villain,
Came riding postilion
A nate little boy on the back of a baste,
Big enough, faith, to ate him,
But he leather'd and bate him,
And the baste to unsate him ne'er struggled the laste.
And an iligant car
He was dhrawing—by gar!
It was finer by far than a Lord Mayor's state coach;
And the chap that was in it,
He sang like a linnet,
With a nate keg o' whisky beside him to broach;
And he tipp'd, now and then,
Just a matther of ten
Or twelve tumblers o' punch to his bowld sarving men.
Came riding postilion
A nate little boy on the back of a baste,
Big enough, faith, to ate him,
But he leather'd and bate him,
And the baste to unsate him ne'er struggled the laste.
And an iligant car
He was dhrawing—by gar!
It was finer by far than a Lord Mayor's state coach;
And the chap that was in it,
He sang like a linnet,
With a nate keg o' whisky beside him to broach;
And he tipp'd, now and then,
Just a matther of ten
Or twelve tumblers o' punch to his bowld sarving men.
They were dress'd in green livery,
But seem'd rather shivery,
For 'twas only a trifle o' leaves that they wore;
But they caper'd away
Like the sweeps on May-day,
And shouted and tippled the tumblers galore.
A print of their master
Is often, in Plaster-
O'-Paris put over the door of a tap,
A fine chubby fellow,
Ripe, rosy, and mellow,
Like a peach that is ready to drop in your lap.
Hurrah! for brave Bacchus,
A bottle to crack us—
He's a friend o' the people, like bowld Caius Gracchus!
But seem'd rather shivery,
For 'twas only a trifle o' leaves that they wore;
But they caper'd away
Like the sweeps on May-day,
And shouted and tippled the tumblers galore.
207
Is often, in Plaster-
O'-Paris put over the door of a tap,
A fine chubby fellow,
Ripe, rosy, and mellow,
Like a peach that is ready to drop in your lap.
Hurrah! for brave Bacchus,
A bottle to crack us—
He's a friend o' the people, like bowld Caius Gracchus!
Now Bacchus, perceiving
The Lady was grieving,
He spoke to her civil and tipp'd her a wink;
And the more that she fretted,
He soother'd and petted,
And gave her a glass her own health just to dhrink;
Her pulse it beat quicker,
The thrifle of liquor
Enliven'd her sinking heart's cockles, I think:—
So the moral is plain
That, if Love gives you pain,
There's nothing can cure it like taking to dhrink.
The Lady was grieving,
He spoke to her civil and tipp'd her a wink;
And the more that she fretted,
He soother'd and petted,
And gave her a glass her own health just to dhrink;
Her pulse it beat quicker,
The thrifle of liquor
Enliven'd her sinking heart's cockles, I think:—
So the moral is plain
That, if Love gives you pain,
There's nothing can cure it like taking to dhrink.
| Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover | |