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With his master's fiddle, (for his own's in pawn) In a green bag slung behind him, 'Mouse of Malt,' says the fuddling elf, 'Though all the world despise thee, One fiddler is left and will spend his last pelf One fiddler will still patronize thee.

The fiddler drank till it got quite late, And the table he fell under, His fiddle was broke by the fall and weight; And the cat-gut tore asunder. Says he, "No one shall ever know,                  Thy sounds which did so cord well," So he smack'd across his knee the bow, Then went to sleep and snor'd well.

--

The bottle came round so fast.

You may talk about drinking your claret and whisky, A jolly companion may term me a toper, Since a sup of the creature first render'd me frisky, Bad luck to my glass! but I ne'er could be                      sober; Let it be where it might, By sunshine or moonlight, So cleverly pleasant the toping time pass'd,                      That to rise up from table, I never was able. Till tipsey--the bottle came round so fast.

When I pleasantly breath'd in the land of potatoes; Quite jolly, one day, I determin'd so neatly,