LXIV
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.”
LXV
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!”
LXVI
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!”
* * * * * * * *