* * * * *
And after that—it's a month ago—my Robin got much worse,
'Twould make your hair just stand on end to hear him swear and curse,
He never gets drunk as he used to do—that's once or twice in a week—
He's never properly sober, on me all his rage he'll wreak.
When he comes home of a morning, it's rarely he goes to bed,
He takes to drinking about all day, and hammerin' me instead,
And well I know my husband's hand, it's weight I often feel,
I wouldn't be lyin' so low, mother, if not for my husband's heel.
The brewers' carts and the scavengers' to-morrow will be gay,