The bellman waits
To claim his annual levy.
And hopes, to lighten his old heart,
You'll stand a pot of heavy.
['Ow werry sewere the cold is, to be sure! it qvite makes von's head turn round. I might have been having a drop too much—and I'm sure I haven't: no—not a drop—too much. I only had half a pint o' beer at Mr. Simkins's—and a small glass of gin at Mr. Wiggins's—and the least drop as ever vos o' visky at Mr. Higgins's—and a pot of porter at Mr. Figgins's—and a thimbleful of brandy at Mr. Villiam Smith's—and a mug of stout at Mr. Valter Smith's—and a glass of grog at Mr. Thomas Smith's—and the share of a pint of purl at Mr. John Smith's—and a teacupful of cherry bounce at Vidow Smith's—and a draught of Dublin stout at Miss Smith's—and I'm sure that couldn't do nob'dy no harm; could it, Bill?]
There's not a stage
Of youth or age—
No spot in life's dull round,
But, like a guardian angel, there
Your faithful crier is found.