Are drinking worser wine than ours,
In what’s no longer Austerlitz)
That surely a tremendous ghost,
The brazen-lunged, the bumper-filler,
Still sings to an immortal toast,
The Misadventures of the Miller.
The vasty seas are hardly bar
To men with such a prepossession;
We were? Why then, by God, we are—
Order! I call the club to session!