And Friendship it hath burned away, Like to a very ember cooling, A make-believe on April day That sent the simple heart a-fooling; Mere jesting in an earnest way, Deceiving on and still deceiving; And Hope is but a fancy-play, And Joy the art of true believing; For Poesy is on the wane, O could I feel her faith again!
By the old tavern door on the causey there lay A hogshead of stingo just rolled from a dray, And there stood the blacksmith awaiting a drop As dry as the cinders that lay in his shop; And there stood the cobbler as dry as a bun, Almost crackt like a bucket when left in the sun. He'd whetted his knife upon pendil and hone Till he'd not got a spittle to moisten the stone; So ere he could work--though he'd lost the whole day-- He must wait the new broach and bemoisten his clay.
The cellar was empty, each barrel was drained To its dregs--and Sir John like a rebel remained In the street--for removal too powerful and large For two or three topers to take into charge. Odd zooks, said a gipsey, with bellows to mend, Had I strength I would just be for helping a friend To walk on his legs: but a child in the street Had as much power as he to put John on his feet. Then up came the blacksmith: Sir Barley, said he, I should just like to storm your old tower for a spree;
And my strength for your strength and bar your renown I'd soon try your spirit by cracking your crown. And the cobbler he tuckt up his apron and spit In his hands for a burster--but devil a bit Would he move--so as yet they made nothing of land; For there lay the knight like a whale in the sand. Said the tinker: If I could but drink of his vein I should just be as strong and as stubborn again. Push along, said the toper, the cellar's adry: There's nothing to moisten the mouth of a fly.
Says the host, We shall burn out with thirst, he's so big. There's a cag of small swipes half as sour as a wig. In such like extremes, why, extremes will come pat; So let's go and wet all our whistles with that. Says the gipsey, May I never bottom a chair If I drink of small swipes while Sir John's lying there. And the blacksmith he threw off his apron and swore Small swipes should bemoisten his gullet no more: Let it out on the floor for the dry cock-a-roach-- And he held up his hammer with threatens to broach