Page:Quite politely.pdf/7

 Farewell hours of bliss, the measure.

Bliss that never can return!

Cheerless o'er the wild heath wandering;

Cheerless o'er the wave-worn shore;

On the past with sadness pond'ring,

Hope's fair vision charm no more!





Each Monday morn before I rise,

I make a fervent prayer,

Unto the gods my husband may

From tippling keep quite clear.

But O! when I his breakfast take,

To shop without delay

What anguish do I feel to hear,

It is a fuddling day.

For it's drink, drink, smoke, smoke,

Drink, drink away,

There is no comfort in the house,

Upon a fuddling day

Saint Monday brings more ills about,

For when the money's spent,

The children's clothes go up the spout,

Which causes discontent:

And then at night he staggers home,