Poetry Archives

Where once with lads I scoffed my beer
     The landlord’s lass I’ve wed.
Now I am lord and master here;—
     Thank God! the old man’s dead.
I stand behind a blooming bar
     With belly like a tub,
And pals say, seeing my cigar:
               ‘Bill’s wed a pub.’

I wonder now if I did well,
     My freedom for to lose;
Knowing my wife is fly as hell
     I mind my ‘Ps’ and ‘Qs’.
Oh what a fuss she made because
     I tweaked the barmaid’s bub:
Alas! a sorry day it was
               I wed a pub.

Fat landlord of the Golden Pig,
     They call me ‘mister’ now;
And many a mug of beer I swig,
     Yet don’t get gay, somehow.
So farmer fellows, lean and clean
     Who sweat to earn your grub,
Although you haven’t got a bean:
               Don’t wed a pub.