Running to the Rye

If a noddy take a toddy, 
Or a little " rye,"
Can a noddy blame a body
Tumbled in the sty?
Tippleton's weak, poor shoddy! Tippleton is dry!
He's fuddling all his intellect running to the "rye."

If a fellow, getting mellow,
Cocking up his eye,
See another toper brother
Drunker than a guy,
That's a sign, poor fellow, standing very nigh
Of the fate that's after him, coming from the rye!

It a toper would be sober,
Let him shut his eye
On the noddy with his toddy,
And his sip of rye!
Tippleton's weak, poor shoddy! Tippleton is dry!
He's fuddling all his intellect running to the "rye."