They seldom fast I tell to you,
Their paunches they well stuff it’s true,
Yet preach about a fast day,
With fish and eggs, and Rhenish wine,
On turtle soup each day they dine,
Till their guts are poking out like swine,
As though it was their last day,
But if poor folks like them could live,
Or if good wages they did receive,
The storms of life they then could brave