Where his flowers immortal grow
Shall we strangers be as now?
Once a Week. 1869.
——:o:——
“The Beating of my own Wife.”
(Air—“The beating of my own heart,”
by Lord Houghton).
I’d melted all my wages,
Ere of beer I had my fill,
For a bob I asked the Missus
—There’s a way where there’s a will.