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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
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Willie had a little Wolff, Its fleece was black as ink,And every time that Willie lied, That Wolff was sure to wink;It looked as harmless as could be Dressed in a pet lamb's hide,But everybody laughed to see A hairy Wolff inside.
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Sing a song of war-tales, Each a Teuton lie;Four-and-twenty canards In a neutral pie;When the pie was opened The birds began to sing;I never saw a dish of duck So wild upon the wing.
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O dear, what can the matter be?O dear, what can the matter be?O dear, what can the matter be? Willie is out of the fair.
He promised to bring me a ribbon from Paris,A ribbon, a tricolor ribbon, from Paris,He promised to bring me a ribbon from Paris, But somehow he never got there.
