SATURDAY EVE.
Tune—"Jeannette et Jeannot."
Yon are going for your pay, for your fortnight's pay, my dear,
And, lest ye do as many do, my heart is filled with fear;
'Tis the eve of Saturday, and a Public-house the place,
And, Oh, how many there have rushed on ruin and disgrace!
When you raise the poison-cup, and pour out a long tirade,
Oh, I fear you will forget the solemn promises you've made;
With your passions all inflamed and your reason laid aside,
You may take some stranger by the hand and fancy her your bride.
Or when Bacchus leads the way, will you think amid the noise,
That the pleasure you are seeking all my happiness destroys;
For your frolic and your wit, perhaps, their leader you may be—
To me such honour is disgrace—such laughter, misery:
But had I a voice of thunder to shake St. Stephen's dome,
I'd have no brandy from abroad, no whisky made at home;
Or if Statesmen license Publicans to vend the "mountain dew,"
Let the men who make the paupers be compelled to keep them too!