One inn there was, where the dim bush swung wet and sleek as a clinging bat, and where stale embers of the night's revelry still flickered; for, behind the lighted windows, men were singing, and we heard them as we passed:
"Oh, we're all dry
Wi' drinking on't—
We're all dry
Wi' drinking on't.
The piper kissed
The fiddler's wife;
And I can't sleep
For thinking on't!"
"Starbuck's Inn," muttered Sir William, grimly. "He's a Boston man; they drink no tea there."