I'll drink at that tavern, and never elsewhere.
Yet it is not that comforts there only combine,
Nor because it dispenses good brandy and wine;
'Tis not the sweet odour of pipe nor cigar—
Oh! no—'tis a something more cozie by far!
'Tis that friends of the light-fingered craft are all nigh,
Who'd drink till the cellar itself should be dry,
And teach you to feel how existence may please,
When pass'd in the presence of cronies like these.
Sweet Sign of the Fiddle! how long could I dwell