clay chatting

                                Hear He Hear He

                              All wiped out as all lads we are
 the little ones passed out on a log or two
by a warm fire
  the wee folk sit quiely and pour a drink   or two around
as they clink the cups together .they all sing a fine tune
                      Thou death thy death may our souls
cluctch a rest  and to the oldest one say to the younger earlier that day .
   What butter and whiskey !