I’ll wager a smoke will set everything right.
Here’s to the Warden’s twelve inches of stalk,
Here’s to Jack Tar’s clay, with one, sir;
To the pipes now with mountings so rich that they “walk,”
And here’s to most pipes which have none, sir.
Fill them up tight, &c.
Here’s to the Milo just out of the shop,
With mouthpiece as dry as pale sherry;
Here’s to your veteran, wet as a mop,
Black as a sloe or a cherry.