And the voice of the reveller never is mute:
Their rich robes, though varied, in beauty may vie.
Yet the purple of Bacchus is deepest in dye:—
’Tis the clime of the East—the return of the sun
Looks down on the deeds which his children have done:
Then wild is the note, and discordant the yell,
When, reeling and staggering, they hiccup—Farewell.
From Hone’s Year Book, Vol. I., p. 1337—38.
Fifty Years Ago.