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A Tankard of Ale |
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We'll sit till the bushes are dropping
Like the spout of a watering-pan,
For till the dram's drank there's no stopping,
We'll keep up the ring to a man.
We'll sit till Dame Nature is feeling
The breath of our stingo so warm,
And bushes and trees begin reeling
In our eyes like to ships in a storm.
We'll sit for three hours before seven, When larks wake the morning to dance, Till night's sooty brood of eleven, With witches ride over to France. We'll sit it in spite of the weather Till we tumble our length on the plain, When the morning shall find us together, To play the game over again.
BOOZE IS THERE1
Where the wintry winds are blowing,
Booze is there ! Where the summer plants are growing,
Booze is there ! . In the desert or the ocean, In the Cars of Locomotion, Even in Sir Wilfrid's lotion,
Booze is there!
1This song was published about 1890 by R. Maynard, 346 Hackney Road, E. The " Sir Wilfrid " referred to is the late Sir Wilfrid Lawson, M.P.
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