So she took from the corner a little cruiskeen
Well filled with the nectar Apollo loves best,
(From the neat Bog of Allen, some pretty poteen);
And he tippled his quantum and staggered to rest.
His many-caped box-coat around him he threw,
For his bed, faith, ’twas dampish, and none of the best;
All above him the clouds their bright-fringed curtains drew,
And the tuft of his night-cap lay red in the west.
Thomas Hamblin Porter (fl. 1820).