Page:Banks of the Dee.pdf/6

 We are dry where we it, tho' the oozing drops eem,
 * the moit walls with wet pearls to emboe,

From the arch mouldy cob webs in gothic tate tream,
 * like tucco-work cut out of mos.

Atride on a butt, as a butt hould be trode,
 * I it my companions among,

Like grape bleing Bacchus, the good fellow's god,
 * and a entiment give, or a ong.

I charge poil in hand, and my empire maintain,
 * view that heap of old hock in the rear;

Yon bottles of Burgundy, ee how they're pil'd,
 * like artillery tier over tier.

My cellar's my camp, and my oldiers my flaks,
 * all gloriouly rang'd in review;

When I cat my eyes round, I conider my caks,
 * as kingdoms I've yet to ubdue.

Like Macedon's madman, my drink I'll enjoy,
 * in defiance of gravel and gout,

Who cry'd, when he had no mere worlds to ubdue,
 * I'll weep when my liquor is out.

When the lamp is brimful, ee the flame brightly hines
 * but when wanting moiture decays;

Replenih the lamps of my life with red wine,
 * or ele there's an end of my blaze.

'Tis my will when I die, not a tear hould be hed,
 * no be cut on my tone;

But pour on my coffin a bottle of red,
 * and ay, A choice pirit is gone, my brave boys,
 * and ay, A choice pirit is gone.



Y mues, don't fail, to the pring give all hail,
 * 'tis the pleaantet time of the year:

When the un doth accot, now mountains & frot,
 * make their hoary heads to diappear.