Who when they grow a little mellow,
Begin to sing and swear and bellow;
Like madmen in a rage or fury,
Not fearing either judge or jury;
Nor do I err much when I tell,
They’ve little dread of heav’n or hell.
The wife her husband thus addresses,
With doubled fist and flowing tresses,—
“Come, Tom, make haste, let us away,
The tide flows high, we cannot stay.”