He’s the dropsy, he’s the gout,
And he looks like pegging out;
And he’s sobbing and he’s sighing all the day—
All the day.
He is haggard, he is pale,
And his limbs begin to fail,
And his whiskers and moustache are going gray—
Going gray.
He is but a bag of bones,
And he lies awake and groans,
When he’s carried by his valet up to bed—
Up to bed.
He is hollow cheeked and eyed,
And, though everything is tried,
He never sleeps a moment for neuralgia in the head—
In the head.
Bitter tears are in his eyes
Night and morning, as he cries,
“Oh, my health is slowly breaking: I’m so ill—
I’m so ill!
“I shall soon be on the shelf,
For I’m ‘going’ like a Guelph.
Please oblige me with my mixture and a pill—
And a pill.”
(BY HIMSELF.)
Which I simply answer, Rot!
For Wales hasn’t gone to pot.
Please to contradict the rumours that are rife—
That are rife.
Now he’s had a little rest
Wales can go it with the best,
And he never felt so jolly in his life—
In his life.