HAD cigarettes no ashes, And roses ne'er a thorn, No man would be a funker Of whin, or burn, or bunker. There were no need for mashies, The turf would ne'er be torn, Had cigarettes no ashes, And roses ne'er a thorn. Had cigarettes no ashes, And roses ne'er a thorn, The big trout would not ever Escape into the river. No gut the salmon smashes Would leave us all forlorn, Had cigarettes no ashes, And roses ne'er a thorn. But 'tis an unideal Sad world in which we're born, And things will 'go contrairy' With Martin and with Mary: And every day the real Comes bleakly in with morn, And cigarettes have ashes, And every rose a thorn.