For let her be clumsy, or let her be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather,
So fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim,
And let us e'en toast 'em together,
Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,
I'll warrant she'll prove
An excuse for the glass.
BRISTOW TRAGEDY
THOMAS CHATTERTON
The feathered songster chanticleer
Had wound his bugle-horn,
And told the early villager
The coming of the morn:
King Edward saw the ruddy streaks
Of light eclipse the gray,
And heard the raven's croaking throat,
Proclaim the fated day.
'Thou 'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the God
That sits enthroned on high!
Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain,
To-day shall surely die.'
Then with a jug of nappy ale
His knights did on him wait;
'Go tell the traitor, that to-day
He leaves this mortal state.'
Sir Canterlone then bended low,
With heart brimful of woe;
He journeyed to the castle-gate,
And to Sir Charles did go.
But when he came, his children twain,
And eke his loving wife,
With briny tears did wet the floor,
For good Sir Charles's life.