Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill,
And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill,
Was once Tommy Tosspot’s, as jovial a sot
As e’er drew a spigot, or drain’d a full pot–
In drinking all round ’twas his joy to surpass,
And with all merry tipplers he swigg’d off his glass.
One morning in summer, while seated so snug,
In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug,
Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear,
And said, “Honest Thomas, come take your last bier.”
We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can,
From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.