Owd Time,—he’s a troublesome codger,— Keeps nudgin’ us on to decay, An’ whispers, “Yo’re nobbut a lodger: Get ready for goin’ away;” Then let’s ha’ no skulkin’ nor sniv’lin’, Whatever misfortins befo’, God bless him that fends for his livin’, An’ houds up his yed through it o’!
Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.
COME, MARY, LINK THI ARM I’ MINE.
So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.