'That shows that you've been peeping.'
She boxed his ears from side to side
And quickly sent him weeping.
The Doctor rubbed his hands and smiled,
To think how well he'd plan'd it,
And Mrs. B.'s quite reconciled,
But the boy don't understand it.
So you all see
What a very cunning fellow was this Doctor B.

Now all you married men so gay,
Just listen to my moral;
Indulge your wives in every way,
And thus avoid a quarrel.
Pray do your best to settle down,
Nor with the fair ones frisk it;
You might not fare like Doctor B.,
It isn't safe to risk it.
For you can see
How very near in trouble was this Doctor B.

'Is that th' only song tha knows young man?'

'That's all aw know, Mr. Cheerman.'

'Why, tak my advice an' forget it as sooin as tha can,
for aw niver heeard a war, an' see if tha cannot find a better.
Nah tha can call for th' next.'

'Well, aw'll call o' owd Miles, an' if he con do ony better
aw'll pay for th' next gallon.'

Old Miles stood up, an' crossed his hands i' front an
turned up his een as if he wor gooin to relate his experience
at a prayer-meetin, an' began:

They may talk of pure love but its fleeting at best;
Let them ridicule gold if they will;
But money's the thing that has long stood the test,
And is longed for and sought after still.
Love must kick the balance against a full purse,
And you'll find if you live to four score,
That whativer your troubles the heaviest curse,
Is to drag on your life and be poor.

If you sigh after titles and long for high rank,
Let this be your aim night and day,
To increase the small balance you have at your bank,
And to honors' 't will soon point the way.
For you'll find that men bow to the glittering dross,
Whate'er its possessor may be;
And if obstacles rise they will help you across,
If you only can boast L. s. d.

See that poor man in rags, bending under his load,
He passes unnoticed along:
No one lends him a hand as he goes on his road,
He must toil as he can through the throng.
But if he was wealthy, how many would fly
To assist him and offer the hand;
But he's poor, so they leave him to toil or to die,
That's the rule in this Christian land.

'Nah, that's summat like a song; aw could lizzen to that all th' neet,
an' aw think yo'll all