The harridan who holds the inn
 At which I toss a pot,
Is old and uglier than sin,--
 I'm glad she knows me not.
Indeed, for me it's hard to think,
 Although my pow's like snow,
She was the lass so fresh and pink
 I courted long ago.
 
I wronged her, yet it's sadly true
 She wanted to be wronged:
They mostly do, although 'tis you,
 The male bloke who is thonged.
Well, anyway I left her then
 To sail across the sea,
And no doubt she had other men,
 And soon lost sight of me.

So now she is a paunchy dame
 And mistress of the inn,
With temper tart and tounge to blame,
 Moustache and triple chin.
And though I have no proper home
 Contentedly I purr,
And from my whiskers wipe the foam,
 --Glad I did not wed her.

Yet it's so funny sitting here
 To stare into her face;
And as I raise my mug of beer
 I dream of our disgrace.
And so I come and come each day
 To more and more enjoy
The joke--that fifty years away
 I was her honey boy.