Who took the coyne he payde,
And giving change, she sayde,
“Here you are.”
As I sate a-drynkynge, her face was as a star.
As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,
Blythely sang the Birde as she pecked about my shoes;
This journalistic childe
Continuously smyled,
And got to mixing “mild”
With Chartreuse.