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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!
THE FUDDLING DAY
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,
