For the sherris was old and rare.
But a cloud came over his gaze eftsoons,
And his wicked old orbs grew dim;
Then drink turn'd each of the silver spoons
To a couple of spoons for him.
He bow'd his head on the festive board,
By the gaslight's dazzling gleam:
He bow'd his head and he slept and snored,
And he dream'd a fearful dream.
For, carried away on the wings of Sleep,