Bessy Bell & Mary Gray (1)/Dear Tom, this Brown Jug

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DEAR TOM.

Dear Tom, this brown jug, that now
⁠foams with mild ale,
Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan
⁠of the vale,
Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul
As e'er drank a bottle, or fathom'd a
⁠bowl.
In boozing about ‘twas his praise to ex-
⁠cel,
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 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
⁠butt.

His body, when long in the ground it
⁠had lain,
And time into clay had resolv'd it again;
A potter found out in its covert so snug.
And with part of fat Toby he 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.