Willie was a wanton wag (1823)/The brown jug

THE BROWN JUG.

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, on fathom'd a bowl.
In boozing about 'twas his praise to excel,
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 resolved 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.

FINIS.