“Nay, answers Tom, deel smash my heart!
Let us but have the other quart.”
She then begins to sing a song,
Would frighten any man but Tom,—
“You idle spendthrift, scant of grace,
I wish I ne’er had seen your face;
A cleanlier lass was never bred,
When I came to your bridal bed.
Had fouth of claiths to clead my back,
But now I’ve scarce a single plack: