Said one — “Folks of a surly Tapster tell,
And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;
They talk of some strict Testing of us — Pish!
He’s a Good Fellow, and ’t will all be well.
Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,
My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:
But, fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by-and-bye!
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
One spied the little Crescent all were seeking:
And then they jogg’d each other,Brother! Brother!
Hark to the Porter’s Shoulder-knot a-creaking!
* * * * * * * *