Old Time is tramping close to-day-you hear his bluchers fall,
A mighty change is on the way, an- God protect us all;
Some dust-ll fly from beery coats-at least it-s been declared.
I-m glad that wimin has the votes-but just a trifle scared.
I-m just a trifle scared-For why? The wimin mean to rule;
It makes me feel like days gone by when I was caned at school.
The days of men is nearly dead-of double moons and stars-
They-ll soon put out our pipes, -tis said, an- close the public bars.

No more we-ll take a glass of ale when pushed with care an- strife,
An-chuckle home with that old tale we used to tell the wife.
We-ll laugh an-joke an- sing no more with jolly beery chums,
An- shout -Here-s luck!- while waitin- for the luck that never comes.

Did we prohibit swillin- tea clean out of common-sense
Or legislate on gossipin- across a backyard fence?
Did we prohibit bustles-or the hoops when they was here?
The wimin never think of this-they want to stop our beer.

The track o- life is dry enough, an- crossed with many a rut,
But, oh! we-ll find it long an- rough when all the pubs is shut,
When all the pubs is shut, an- gone the doors we used to seek,
An- we go toilin-, thirstin- on through Sundays all the week.

For since the days when pubs was -inns--in years gone past-n- far-
Poor sinful souls have drowned their sins an- sorrers at the bar;
An- though at times it led to crimes, an- debt, and such complaints-
I scarce dare think about the time when all mankind is saints.

-Twould make the bones of Bacchus leap an- break his coffin lid;
And Burns-s ghost would wail an- weep as Bobby never did.
But let the preachers preach in style, an- rave and rant--n- buck,
I rather guess they-ll hear awhile the old war-cry: -Here-s Luck!-

The world might wobble round the sun, an- all the banks go bung,
But pipes-ll smoke an- liquor run while Auld Lang Syne is sung.
While men are driven through the mill, an- flinty times is struck,
They-ll find a private entrance still! Here-s Luck, old man-Here-s Luck!