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!
[Original Size]
