To drink bad luck to all his sort—
The tallow-faced ould villin.
So Jem is gone to Aldershot,
Where 'tis I've no idea;
Of coorse it is some desprate spot,
Nigh-hand to the Crimea.
There's some entrench'd upon a hill,
Some hutted in a valley;
I'm sure Jem would be better, still
At home in Fordham's Alley.