Brimful of good liquor, as gay as the Pope;
His shirt collar’s open, his wig is awry,
There’s his stock on the ground, there’s a cock in his eye.
Half gone his last tumbler—clean gone his last joke,
And his pipe, like his college, is ending in smoke.
What he’s saying who knows, but perhaps it may be
Something tender and soft of a bouncing ladye.”
W. Maginn.