With six bottles more.
Be sure you don’t pass
The good house, Moneyglass,
Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns,
’Twill well suit your humour—
For, pray, what would you more,
Than mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones?
Ye lovers who pine
For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair,
Who whimper and whine