At the Golden Pig
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.
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