Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear the liquor flow;
And after hours the bobby's tread,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a convict working the cheerful mill
When his morals have been low.
And maidens, not long freed from school,
Jot down th' increasing score,
They love to see the lab'rers gorge,
And hear the rustics roar,