So pass'd we all, and when we woke each knew of a heavy head,
For not a soul of all of us had found the way to bed!
And a tempest of indignation swept over our surging brains,
That we could be floored by vintage, ay, ev'n of a hundred Spains!
"It never was PORT"! we cried, and so we tasted it once again—'twas SLOE!
Vile SLOE, with all our might, we had drunk for half the night!
And brave Sir Richard Tankard said, "Boys, although we drank hard,
'Tis SLOE-JUICE, and not Spanish wine, is giving us such pains!"
Then in a sink, that day, we poured the rest away,
To be lost evermore in the drains.