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No envy of malice is there to be found;
He courts, and he marries,
He drinks, and he fights,
He loves! ah he loves,
For in love he delights,
Witk his Sprig, &c.
Who's e'er had the luck
To see Danebrook fair,
And Irishman all in his glory is there,
With his Sprig, &c.
His cloaths speck and span me,
Without e'er a speck;
A nice Barcelona tied round his neat neck,
He goes into a tent,
And he spends half-a-crown,
Comes out, meets his friend,
And for love knocks him down!
With his Sprig, &c.
At night when returning,
As homeward he goes,
His heart soft with ⟨whisky⟩
,
His head soft with blows
Of a Sprig, &c.
