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5
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.
