Said one—«Folks of a surly Tapster tell,
And daub his Visage with the smoke of Hell;
They talk of some strict Testing of us—Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well.»
Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,
«My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:
But, fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by-and-bye!»
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
One spied the little Crescent all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, «Brother, Brother!
Hark to the Porter's Shoulder-knot a creaking!»
* * * * * * *
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And in a Windingsheet of Vine-leaf wrapt,
So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.