The Norman cider, which we quaff,
Is quite the equal of his wine,—
When down, down, down it freely goes,
And charms the palate as it flows.
Whene’er a potent draught I take,
How dost thou bid me drink again?
Yet, pray, for my affection’s sake,
Dear Cider, do not turn my brain.
O, down, down, down it freely goes,
And charms the palate as it flow.