With every one they will be friends,
If they can but gain their ends.
Then with his bosom full of strife,
Each man goes home to beat his wife,
The children beat and sent to bed,
Because the wretches have no bread.
No meat, no butter have they got,
Such is the dwelling of a sot,
The wife in tears and ragged too,
Say, drunkard, is my statement true?