’Tis midnight. For one “level son,”
A hundred bawl they “havn’t done,”
And as the barrels run and run,
Shout in their beery jollity.
The beer grows thicker: now they go—
They could not drink for aye, you know—
Grantham thy banners (calico)
Should wave o’er these (thy chivalry?).
Few, few can stand, though all have feet,
They need no counterpane or sheet,