Ne quid nimis.
Tom Smith was the son of a Bedfordshire man;
(The Smiths, we all know, are a numerous clan)
He was happy and healthy and handsome and strong,
And could sing on occasion a capital song.
His father had once been a labourer poor,
But had always contrived to keep want from the door;
And by work and by thrift had enough in his pocket
To rent a small farm from his landlord, and stock it.
He died: Tom succeeded: the ladies all said
It was high time he went to the Church to be wed;
And Sarah and Clara, and Fanny and Bess,
Confessed if he "offer'd" perhaps they'd say "Yes."
But Tom fixed his eyes on the Miller's young daughter,
And was only awaiting the right time to court her;
So one day as he saw her walk out from the mill,
He set off in pursuit with a very good will.
Now Tom, I must tell you, had one little fault,
He was rather too fond of a mixture of malt;
In fact, if my meaning is not very clear,
I'm afraid he was rather too "partial to Beer."
Says Tom to himself as he followed the maid,
"I should like just a glass, for I'm rather afraid"—
No doubt at such times men are nervous and queer,
So he stopped at the Public for one glass of Beer.
He had his one glass, and then two or three more,
And when he set out from the Public-house door
He saw a sad sight, and he saw it with groans—
Mary Anne on the arm of Theophilus Jones.
Yes, Theophilus Jones was a steady young man,
Who enjoyed but was never too fond of his can;
And while Smith in the public was stopping to swill,
Jones had woo'd and had won the fair maid of the mill.
Tom homeward returned like a runaway pup,
When the lash of the whipper-in touches him up;
And he sighed to himself, "It's most painfully clear
That I've lost a good wife for a bad glass of Beer."