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112 |
The Song Book |
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LXXXV
YEO, YEO, YEO, YEO, YEO, SIR |
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What girl but loves the merry tars
Who o'er the ocean roam, Sir? In every clime we find a port,
In every port a home, Sir. With yeo, &c.
But when our country's foes are nigh,
Each hastens to his gun, Sir, "We make the boasting Frenchmen fly,
And bang the haughty Don, Sir. With yeo, &c.
Our foes subdued, once more on shore,
We spend our cash with glee, Sir, And when all's gone we drown our care,
And out again to sea, Sir. With yeo, See.
From The Spoilt Child. |
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