A sort of a “horse-up,” you know, and he
swigged
A pint of hard cider or so at a crack,
And set down the jug with a satisfied smack.
“Aha!” said he, “that grows the hair on ye,
bub,
My rule durin’ hayin’s more cider, less grub.
I take it, sah, wholly to stiddy my nerves,
And up in the stow hole I pitch ’em some
curves