The Bottle Comes Round So Fast

You may talk about drinking of claret and whisky, A jolly companion may term a mere toper! Since a sup of the creature first render'd one frisky, Bad luck to my glass! but I ne'er could keep sober.

Let it be what it might, By sun-shine or moon-light, So cleverly pleasant the toping time past; That to rise up from table, I never was able, 'Till tipsy—the bottle came round so fast.

When I pleasantly breath'd in the land of potatoes, Quite jolly, one day, I detarmin'd so neatly, To keep myself sober among the sweet creatures, So rose, just before I was knock'd up compleatly.

But on bidding good bye, Just to whet t'other eye, Dough-a-duros, a drink at the door I must taste, As there was no denying, They found me complying And tipsy—the bottle came round so fast.

At a snug monthly club, where we always meet weekly, They've white-wash'd the wall all red over with brushes; Because it was obsarved by myself most obliquely, Our features look'st fairest when covered with blushes.

Here we talk and we drink, And leave others to think; Oh! the brave jolly moments I with them have past! And tho' quite a full table, To rise I'm unable, 'Till tipsey;—the bottle came round so fast.

One day in my cups, I was merrily roving, A friend took my part, says he, Pat why your'e tipsey! Arrah! where have you been now, and where are you going? You've dined out—drank hard, & are quite non se ipse?

Says I prating elf— No I dined by myself, The way to keep sober I planned out at last; But to rise up from table, 'Till drunk I wan't able, Because that—the bottle came round so fast.