An' the cook he giv me warnin':
"It's Oirish stew you'll be," sez he,
"To-morrow, come the marnin'."
But to-morrow, be the Powers, sor,
The King wuz moighty bad,
Wid most odjus pains insoide him,
An' they nearly drove him mad;
So he sint a little note, sor,
By the cook, apologoizin'
For not cooking me that day, sor,