SONG 4. Poor Soldier

Dear Tom, this brown jug, that now foam with mild ale, Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the vale, Was once Toby Philpot, a thirsty old soul, As e'er crack'd 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 in the dog-days, as he sat at his ease, In his flow'r-woven arbour, as gay as 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 were shut, And he died full as big as a Dorchester but.

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