“Now bend ye to your tasks—go trundle down those casks,
And place the empty flasks on the floor;
George of Gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and with drum,
To taste our beer and rum
Any more!”
So they bent them to their tasks, and they trundled down the casks,
And replaced the empty flasks on the floor;
But pallid for a week was the cellar-master’s cheek,
For he swore he heard a shriek
Through the door.
When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent its flame
To the face of squire and dame in the hall,
The cellarer went down to tap October brown,
Which was rather of renown
’Mongst them all.
He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow,
But his liquor would not flow through the pin.
“Sure, ’tis sweet as honeysuckles!” so he rapped it with his knuckles,
But a sound, as if of buckles,
Clashed within.
“Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!” and they cleft the cask of beer:
What a spectacle of fear met their sight!
There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey,
In the arms he bore the day
Of the fight!
I have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail,
Though the moral ye may fail to perceive;
Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust,
And now, I think, I must
Take my leave!
