We drink and piss, and piss and drink, and drink to piss again
And a Toping, &c.
Oh that my Belly it were a Tun of stall,
My Cock were turn'd into a Tap, to run when I did call,
And a Toping, &c.
Of all sorts of Topers, a Soph is far the best,
For 'till he can neither go nor stand, by Jove he's ne'er at rest,
And a Toping, &c.
We fear no Wind or Weather, when good Liquor dwells within,
And since a Soph does live so well, then who would be a King,