Although the times are very queer,
Some old women have a way got,
To raise themselves a drop of beer.
Or a drop of gin in the teapot.
If meat was seven shillings a pound,
Old Polly, Kit, and Sally,
Would find the means to guzzle down,
A little cream of the valley.
The butchers now, oh dear! oh dear!
Declare no meat they can sell,