And Mr. Smith, he has come down,
We’ll drink his health in glasses round,—
Success to the flitch of bacon;
Young men and maids like summer bees,
We’ll roam beneath the shady trees,
Come marry me quick now, if you please,
And next year we’ll get the bacon.
Some will laugh, and some will shout,
Some on the grass will roll about,
While smart young men, without a doubt,