Pretzels his lunch, his night-cap, gin, without.
And in this guise he keeps a jolly pace,
Shaking his sides, a grin upon his face.
Great in our land as is our famous eagle,
He sings in opera, and he fights mit Sigel.
Rom. Steady, my boy, you’re really getting dry.
My stars! old fellow, what’s that in the sky?
Mer. The moon, of course—
Rom. But I see two, I’ll swear.
Mer. Then you see double.