EPILOGUE.
231
Leave such an abyss of malt and hops
Embellied in butts which bungs still glue?
You hate your bard! A fig for your rage!
Free him from cellarage!
Embellied in butts which bungs still glue?
You hate your bard! A fig for your rage!
Free him from cellarage!
13.
'Tis said I brew stiff drink,
But the deuce a flavor of grape is there.
Hardly a May-go-down, 'tis just
A sort of a gruff Go-down-it-must—
No Merry-go-down, no gracious gust
Commingles the racy May, the rare!
"What wonder," say you "we cough, and blink
October's heady drink?"
'Tis said I brew stiff drink,
But the deuce a flavor of grape is there.
Hardly a May-go-down, 'tis just
A sort of a gruff Go-down-it-must—
No Merry-go-down, no gracious gust
Commingles the racy May, the rare!
"What wonder," say you "we cough, and blink
October's heady drink?"
