Each thought of the liquor that’s brewed with yeast,
And not of the wife with the tattered gown—
For men must drink, and women must weep,
For there’s little to earn and nothing to keep,
When the pot-house bar is groaning.
Three wives sat up in a garret bare,
And they lit their dips as the sun sank low,
And they gazed at the squalor and misery there
Till the night-rake comes rolling up stagg’ring slow.
For men must drink and women must weep,