Dreading neither thirst nor hunger, sun nor storm, nor roaring noise,
Swearing men, nor scolding women, barking dogs, nor tyrant boys.
But they smile, they smell a prospect of a dinner by-and-bye,
Steaming up, a preparation making in the kitchens nigh,
And their tail is full of meaning when it’s curled so high!
But the luckless race of human labor for their life,
Plant and dig and raise potatoes, mostly keep a wife;
Wife who scolds them late and early, more than one would think,
’Till they lose their senses nearly—some, ’tis whispered, take to drink—
Swigging endless potions—others in Tobacco islands dwell,