And Cyprus, and who can say how many more!
For a chary old soul is he,
A chary old soul is he.
Of Sack and Canary he never doth fail,
And all the year round there is brewing of ale;
Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say,
While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day;
But ho! ho! ho! his nose doth show
How oft the black Jack to his lips doth go.
But ho! ho! ho! his nose doth show