In a green bag slung behind him.
‘House of malt.’ says the fiddling bard,
Though all the world despise thee,
One fiddler is left and will spend his last,
If its only to patronize thee.
The fiddler drank till it got quite late,
And the table he fell under,
His fiddle was broke by the fall and weight
And the cat-gut tore asunder.
Says he ‘No one shall ever know,