HAD cigarettes no ashes, 
 And roses ne'er a thorn, 
 No man would be a funker 
 Of whin, or burn, or bunker. 
 There were no need for mashies, 
 The turf would ne'er be torn, 
 Had cigarettes no ashes, 
 And roses ne'er a thorn. 


 Had cigarettes no ashes, 
 And roses ne'er a thorn, 
 The big trout would not ever 
 Escape into the river. 
 No gut the salmon smashes 
 Would leave us all forlorn, 
 Had cigarettes no ashes, 
 And roses ne'er a thorn. 


 But 'tis an unideal 
 Sad world in which we're born, 
 And things will 'go contrairy' 
 With Martin and with Mary: 
 And every day the real 
 Comes bleakly in with morn, 
 And cigarettes have ashes, 
 And every rose a thorn.