At The Golden Pig

Where once with lads I scoffed my beer The landlord's lass I've wed. Now I am lord and master here;-- Thank God! the old man's dead. I stand behind a blooming bar With belly like a tub, And pals say, seeing my cigar: 'Bill's wed a pub.' I wonder now if I did well, My freedom for to lose; Knowing my wife is fly as hell I mind my 'Ps' and 'Qs'. Oh what a fuss she made because I tweaked the barmaid's bub: Alas! a sorry day it was I wed a pub. Fat landlord of the Golden Pig, They call me 'mister' now; And many a mug of beer I swig, Yet don't get gay, somehow. So farmer fellows, lean and clean Who sweat to earn your grub, Although you haven't got a bean: Don't wed a pub.