Oh, I’ll sing of the pig, be he little or big,
     For we can’t very well do without him,
Tho’ he cares not a fig to be neat or be trig
     And hasn’t much beauty about him.

But there’s meat—juicy meat—and spare ribs so sweet

     That many times graces our table,
There’s the head, and the feet, and the carcase complete,
     And we oft eat as much as we’re able.

And there’s lard—snowy lard—sometimes soft, sometimes hard,
     And we use it when doing our baking.

Oh, the pig is a pard that we cannot discard,
     Tho’ sometimes new friends we be making.

But the pig is a friend that will last to the end
     Altho’, as I’ve said he’s no beauty,
And to you I can send this good recommend

     That he always keeps doing his duty.

He may dig, he may root, and our gardens oft loot,
     But that, you must know is his natur’;
We may after him scoot, and threaten the “Brute”
     And breathe out bad cess to the cratur’.

But then with a will he will come to us still
     And thrive if we give him attention;
If his trough we but fill with plenty of swill
     And other good food I might mention.

And if we have cares in our money affairs,

     If at any time there is a shortage,
Then the pig nobly shares, and our burden oft bears
     And he’s great at reducing a mortgage.

Oh, the pig is a gent, on mischief oft bent,
     To take him all through he’s a corker,