The Mule close following, tott’ring ’neath its load.
Poor Teague, esteem’d by all a hearty fellow,
With parting Glass had got a little mellow:
A trifling failing here I must disclose,
Teague swore ’twas for the honour of his Nose,
Whose lovely size, and colour, to his thinking,
Could only be maintained by hearty drinking.
Heedless he went, unmindful as he past,
The poor Mule stumbled, and the load was cast.
‘Thunder & Turf! are those your tricks?’ says Teague,