Yes, Theophilus Jones was a steady young man,
  Who enjoyed but was never too fond of his can;
  And while Smith in the public was stopping to swill,
  Jones had woo’d and had won the fair maid of the mill.

  Tom homeward returned like a runaway pup,
  When the lash of the whipper-in touches him up;
  And he sighed to himself, “It’s most painfully clear
  That I’ve lost a good wife for a bad glass of Beer.”

* * * * *

  At length he was married to Emily Brown—­
  A tidier girl there was none in the town—­
  The church bells were ringing, the village was gay,
  As Tom met his bride in her bridal array.

  For a twelvemonth or more things went on pretty straight;
  Tom went early to work, and was never home late;
  But after that time a sad change, it would seem,
  Came over the spirit of Emily’s dream.

  The Rector missed Tom from his place in the choir;
  In the evening his wife sat alone by the fire;
  When her husband came home he was never too early,
  And his manner was dull, and at times even surly.

  He was late in the autumn in sowing his wheat;
  His bullocks and sheep had disease of the feet;
  His sows had small litters; his taters went bad;
  And he took just a glass when he felt rather sad.

  The Rector’s “good lady” was passing one day,
  And looked in, her usual visit to pay—­
  “How dy’e do, Mrs. Smith?  Is the baby quite well? 
  Have you got any eggs, or young chickens to sell?”

  But Emily Smith couldn’t answer a word;
  At length her reply indistinctly was heard;
  “I’m all of a mullock [1], it’s no use denying—­”
  And with that the poor woman she burst out a crying.

  Then after a time with her apron she dried
  The tears from her eyes, and more calmly replied,
  “I don’t mind confessing the truth, ma’am, to you,
  For I’ve found in you always a comforter true.

  Things are going to ruin; the land’s full o’ twitch;
  There’s no one to clean out a drain or a ditch;
  The gates are all broken, the fences all down;
  And the state of our farm is the talk of the town.

  We’ve lost a young horse, and another’s gone lame;
  Our hay’s not worth carting; the wheat’s much the same;
  Our pigs and our cattle are always astray;
  Our milk’s good-for-nothing; our hens never lay.

  Tom ain’t a bad husband, as husbands do go;
  (That ain’t saying much, as I daresay you know)
  But there’s one thing that puts him and me out o’ gear—­
  He’s always a craving for one glass of Beer.

  He never gets drunk, but he’s always half-fuddled;
  He wastes all his time, and his wits are all muddled;
  “We’ve notice to quit for next Michaelmas year—­
  All owing to Tom and his one glass of Beer!”