Hie away to the house on the brow, Gaffer Gray,
And knock at the jolly priest’s door,
‘Oh! the priest often preaches
‘Against worldly riches,
‘But ne’er gives a mite to the poor— Well-a day!
‘But ne’er,’ &c.
The lawyer lives under the hill, Gaffer Gray,
Warmly fenc’d both in back and in front;
‘He will fasten his locks,
‘And will threaten the stocks,
‘Should he ever more find me in want— Well-a-day!
‘Should he,’ &c.
The squire has beeves and ale, Gaffer Gray,
And the season will welcome thee there,
‘Oh! his beeves and brown beer,
‘And his merry new year,
‘Are all for the flush and the fair—Well-a day!
‘Are all,’ &c.
My keg is but low, I confess, Gaffer Gray;
What then? while it lasts, man, we’ll live.
The poor ran alone,
When he hears the poof moan,
Of his morsel, a morsel will give— Well-a day,
Of his,&c
