"Three weeks before Easter
The snow will be flush,
My girl will be married,
And I in the slush."
"That's not the way," said Constantine: "turn round the handle:"--
"Three weeks before Easter,
There'll be slush in the snow:
The jade will be married
And I'll courting go."
Laughter and applause from all sides of the room were the reward of
this poetic effort. Peter then struck up:--
"Sweetheart, you thief,
You're all my grief;
And while I live,
No comfort you'll give."