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I devise to end my days—in a tavern drinking,
May some Christian hold for me—the glass when I am shrinking,
That the cherubim may cry—when they see me sinking,
God be merciful to a soul—of this gentleman's way of thinking.
A glass of wine amazingly—enlighteneth one's internals;
'Tis wings bedewed with nectar—that fly up to supernals;
Bottles cracked in taverns—have much the sweeter kernels,
Than the sups allowed to us—in the college journals.
Every one by nature hath—a mold which he was cast in;
I happen to be one of those—who never could write fasting;
By a single little boy—I should be surpass'd in
Writing so: I'd just as lief—be buried; tomb'd and grass'd in.
Every one by nature hath—a gift too, a dotation:
I, when I make verses—do get the inspiration
Of the very best of wine—that comes into the nation:
It maketh sermons to astound—for edification.
Just as liquor floweth good—floweth forth my lay so;
But I must moreover eat—or I could not say so;
Naught it availeth inwardly—should I write all day so;
But with God's grace after meat—I beat Ovidius Naso.
Neither is there given to me—prophetic animation,
Unless when I have eat and drank—yea, ev'n to saturation,
Then in my upper story—hath Bacchus domination,
And Phœbus rushes into me, and beggareth all relation.
Leigh Hunt.
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