A barrel of malt,
And four good stout pegs in a mulga plain.
[159]
]My worldly friend! if you’d list to me,
You’d cease to worry of duns and bills,
And practice the one philanthropy
That works the ranch that your ego fills—
For the mugs await
At your outer gate,
And the world is crying for gilded pills.
’Tis thus the prizes are lost or won,