I cannot sing the old songs now! It is not that I deem them low, 'Tis that I can't remember how They go.
I know you've been married to the same woman for 69 years. That is marvellous. It must be very inexpensive.
I've read in many a novel, that unless they've souls that grovel - Folks prefer in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.
Read not Milton, for he is dry; nor Shakespeare, for he wrote of common life.
The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, That wholly consisted of lines like these.
Meaning, however, is no great matter.
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