Come in to dinner, squalls the dame, You need it now perhaps; But hear the husband's loud exclaim, I do not like your snaps; 'Tis snaps when at your breakfast meal, And snaps when at your spinning wheel, Too many by a devilish deal, For all your words are snaps. Why do you tarry, tell me why? The chamber door she taps; Eat by yourself, my dear, for I Am surfeited with snaps; For if I cough it is the cry, You always snap at supper time, I'd rather lave in vats of lime, Than face you with your snaps. How gladly would I be a book, To your long pocket flaps, That you my face may read and look, And learn the worth of snaps; I'm sorry that I learning lack To turn you to an almanac; Next year I'll hang you on the rack, And end the date of snaps. |