The Fuddling Day, Or Saint Monday

Each Monday morn before I rise,
I make a fervent prayer;
Unto the Gods my husband might,
From tippling keep quite clear,
But Oh ! when I his breakfast take,
To Shop without delay.
What anguish do I feel to hear,
It is a Fuddling day.
For ?tis drink drink, smoke, smoke,
Drink, drink, away.
There is no pleasure in the house,
Upon a Fuddling day.

Saint Monday brings more ills about!
For when the money?s spent
The children?s clothes gone up the spout
Which causes discontent
And then at night he staggers home,
He knows not what to say
A fool is more a man than he,
Upon a Fuddling day.
For it?s drink, drink, &c.

My husband is a workman good,
No man can be more civil
Except upon a Fuddling day
And then he is a devil.
For should I thwart his humour then,
The claret?s sure to fly.
And I have cause to dread his look;
Upon a Fuddling day.
And it?s drink, drink, &c.

A friend of mine came in one day,
?Twas cold and foggy weather
To comfort you says she we?ll have
A drop of max together
My husband came in at the time
I knew not what to say
Bus she?ll not come again I?m sure
Upon a Fuddling day
And it?s drink, drink, &c.