A Bacchanalian Stile

Dear Tom, this brown jug, that now foams with mild ale, (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale) Was once Toby Philpot, a thirsty old soul, As e'er drank a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl; In boozing about 'twas his praise to excel, And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.

It chanc'd, as in dog-days he sat at his ease, In his flow'r-woven arbour, as gay ao you please, With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away, And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay; His breath-doors of life-on a sudden was shut, And he died, full as big as a Dorcester butt.

His body when long in the ground it had lain, And time into clay had desolv'd it again, A potter found out, in its cover so snug, And with part of fat Toby I form'd this brown jug: Now sacred to friendship, to mirth and mild ale; So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale.