CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY

But what is coffee, but a noxious berry, Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?

But ah! disasters have their use; And life might e'en be too sunshiny.

I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.

The auld wife sat at her ivied door, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees.

I've read in many a novel, that unless they've souls that grovel-- Folks prefer in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.

Meaning, however, is no great matter.

Read not Milton, for he is dry; nor Shakespeare, for he wrote of common life.

Oh Beer! Oh Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass! Names that should be on every infant's tongue! Shall days and months and years and centuries pass, And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?

Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards.

Read not Milton, for he is dry; nor Shakespeare, for he wrote of common life.

I cannot sing the old songs now! It is not that I deem them low, 'Tis that I can't remember how They go.

I know you've been married to the same woman for 69 years. That is marvellous. It must be very inexpensive.

Meaning, however, is no great matter.

The heart which grief hath cankered, Hath one unfailing remedy - the Tankard.

Oh Beer! Oh Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass! Names that should be on every infant's tongue! Shall days and months and years and centuries pass, And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?

I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.

Precious to me - it is the Dinner Bell. Oh blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer.

Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards.

Should ever anything be missed - milk, coals, umbrellas, brandy - the cat's pitched into with a boot or anything that's handy.

But what is coffee, but a noxious berry, Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?

The auld wife sat at her ivied door, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees.

The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, That wholly consisted of lines like these.

I've read in many a novel, that unless they've souls that grovel-- Folks prefer in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.

But ah! disasters have their use; And life might e'en be too sunshiny.