ON the bleak shore of Norway, I’ve lately been told,
Large numbers of cod-fish are found,
And the animals’ livers are afterwards sold
At so many “pfennigs” per pound;
From which is extracted, with infinite toil,
A villainous fluid called cod-liver oil!
Now, I don’t mind a powder, a pill, or a draught—
Though I mingle the former with jam—
And many’s the mixture I ‘ve cheerfully quaff’d,
And the pill I have gulp’d like a lamb.
But then I envelop my pills in tin-foil,
And I can’t do the same with my cod-liver oil!
In the course of my lifetime I’ve swallow’d enough
To have floated a ship of the line,
And it’s purely the fault of this horrible stuff
That I’ve ceased to enjoy ginger wine.
For how can you wonder to see me recoil
From a liquor I mix’d with my cod-liver oil?
There are few deeds of daring from which I should quail-
There are few things I ‘d tremble to do—
But there ’s one kind of tonic that makes me turn pale,
And quite spoils my appetite, too;
But, you see, just at present, I ‘ve got none to spoil—
So I don’t mind alluding to cod-liver oil!
