The pops of out-drawn corks—the “hip hurrah!”
The eloquence of claret—and the songs,
Which often through the noisy revel break,
When a man—might his quietus make
With a full bottle? Who would sober be,
Or sip weak coffee through the live-long night;
But that the dread of being laid upon
That stretcher by policemen borne, on which
The reveller reclines,—puzzles me much,
And makes me rather tipple ginger beer,