Evaporated of my brain, a shrunken rag, and dust,
A something must be done I wot, I wis a something must;"
He took a portly bottle up, and from its tinselled neck,
He poured the buzzing nectar forth, and without pause or reck,
Into his æsophagus then decanting it straightway
He lit a weed,—he was a man who never smoked a clay,—
"Oddsbodkins to that liberal!"—He swore in antient guise
Of quaintly oath—"He's more than I, I wot, for he is wise
Unto the leading, and the light