GIN, GIN, SWEET, SWEET GIN!
Air.—Home, Sweet Home.
alk through London town, in Alley, Lane or Street,
Eight to ten of all the folks you overtake or meet,
List to what they talk about, you’ll find amid the din,
The end of every conversation is a drop of Gin.
Gin, Gin, sweet, sweet Gin,
There’s no drops like Gin.
hen the world was young, as we read in classic page,
The shepherds drank the purling stream, and pass’d the golden age;
For purling streams or golden age folks now don’t care a pin,
So that they can raise the brass to keep this age of Gin.
Gin, Gin, Hodge’s Gin, &c.
hen the weather’s cold and bleak—in rain and frost and snow,
The Gin, the Gin they fly to, to warm them with its glow.
In summer time, to cool their heat, we see them all flock in
And joy or sorrow, heat or cold, all seek relief in Gin.
Gin, Gin, Seager and Evans’s Gin, &c.
