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An' thin we swill Our Leoville, That oils our throats like butther. For we 're the boys That hearts desthroys, &c.
We make from hay
A splindid tay, From beans a gorgeous coffee;
Our crame is prime,
Wid chalk and lime — In fact, 't is quite a throphy.
Our chickens roast,
Wid butthered toast, I 'm sure would timpt St. Pether;
Now you '11 declare
Our bill of fare It could n't be complether.
For we 're the boys
That hearts desthroys, &c.
Now silence all, While I recall A memory sweet and tender;