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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
But that drunken ould brute? Now aisy! aisy!
I know she wasn' azackly a daisy
Of the field, this ould skunk;
But still she wasn' always drunk.
And these flighty people'll have a go with them,
Bless my sowl! a kind of glow with them,
Like fine ould rum or somethin', is it?
Stirs you up, warms your gizzit —
Potes is like that, and fiddlers is,
Play-acthors, singers, circusis—
They'll put a pinch of somethin' tasty
In coortin' and everything—don't be hasty!
Fond of liquor! I don't deny it—
Special when they haven' to buy it—
Poor sowls!
I know she wasn' azackly a daisy
Of the field, this ould skunk;
But still she wasn' always drunk.
And these flighty people'll have a go with them,
Bless my sowl! a kind of glow with them,
Like fine ould rum or somethin', is it?
Stirs you up, warms your gizzit —
Potes is like that, and fiddlers is,
Play-acthors, singers, circusis—
They'll put a pinch of somethin' tasty
In coortin' and everything—don't be hasty!
576
Special when they haven' to buy it—
Poor sowls!
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |