Let school-masters puzzle their brain, <br />With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; <br />Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, <br />Gives 'genus' a better discerning. <br />Let them brag of their heathenish gods, <br />Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians: <br />Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods, <br />They're all but a parcel of Pigeons. <br />Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. <br /> <br />When Methodist preachers come down <br />A-preaching that drinking is sinful, <br />I'll wager the rascals a crown <br />They always preach best with a skinful. <br />But when you come down with your pence, <br />For a slice of their scurvy religion, <br />I'll leave it to all men of sense, <br />But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. <br />Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. <br /> <br />Then come, put the jorum about, <br />And let us be merry and clever; <br />Our hearts and our liquors are stout; <br />Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. <br />Let some cry up woodcock or hare, <br />Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons; <br />But of all the birds in the air, <br />Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. <br />Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.<br /><br />Oliver Goldsmith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-she-stoops-to-conquer-a-song/
