CHAPTER XXVII.
THE BALL.
“Truly my brethren—truly my dear sisters—do you know how it seems to me—why it seems to me that no one can get along till he has taken a draught—How so? Eh? Your health, dear soul—
Here’s to you day and night,
New raptures, new delight.
Strike up with the fiddles! beat the drums! a stout pull at the pot!
Here’s to ye as is fit,
The reckoning day endeth it.
The big bottle hail ye,
The drums beat reveiller,