’Tisn’t pleasant to wait
In a fidgety state
Of mind, at an hour we deem very late,
When our fancies have fled
Home to supper and bed,
And we feel we are catching a cold in the head;
(By the way, if this ailment should ever make you ill,
Drop some neat sal-volatile into your gruel,
You’ll be all right next day,
And will probably say,