Or “my Lord Duke” intends to send you home to your friends;
Allow ten pounds a quarter for yourself and your daughter;
Though you strive all your might you can do nothing right;
While the maids—the old song—can do nothing wrong;
“Ev’ry shirt wants a button”! Every day they’ve cold mutton;
They’re always a-flurrying one, or else they’re a-hurrying one, or else they’re a-worrying one;
Threatening to smother your dear sainted mother, or kick your big brother;
After all your fine doings, your strugglings and stewings—why “the house is in ruins!”
Then the wine goes like winking, and they cannot help thinking you’ve taken to drinking;
They’re perpetually rows keeping, ’cause out of house-keeping they’re in bonnets their spouse keeping;