The heart which grief hath cankered, Hath one unfailing remedy - the Tankard.

But ah! disasters have their use; And life might e'en be too sunshiny.

Meaning, however, is no great matter.

Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards.

Precious to me - it is the Dinner Bell. Oh blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer.

The auld wife sat at her ivied door, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees.

But what is coffee, but a noxious berry, Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?