AN IRISH DRINKING SONG,
OF the ancients its ſpeaking, my ſoul you'd be after,
That they never got how come you lo,
Would you ſeriouſly make the good folks die with laughter
To be ſure their dog tricks we don't know:
To be ſure their dog tricks we don't know.
With your ſmalliliow nonſenſe, and all your queer bodderns
Since whiſky's a liquor divine:
To be ſure the old ancients as well as the moderns,
Did not love a ſly ſup of good wine;
Did not love a ſly ſup of good wine.
Apicius and Æſop, as authors aſſure us,
Would ſwig 'till as drunk as a beaſt,
Then what do you think that rogue Epicurus,
Was not he a tight hand at a feaſt Was, etc.
With your ſmalliliow, etc.
Alexander the Great at his banquets who drank hard,
When he no more worlds could ſubdue,
Shed tears to be ſure, but 'twas tears of the tankard,
To refreſh him, and pray would not you, To, etc.
With your ſmalliliow? etc.
Then that t'other old felow they call'd Ariſtotle,
Such a devil of a tipler was he,
That one night having taken ſo much of his bottle,
The Teaf ſtaggard into the ſea. The Teaf, etc.
With your ſmalliliow, etc.
Then they made what they call'd of their wine a libation
Which, as all authority quotes:
They threw on the ground—muſha, what boderation,
To be ſure twas not thrown down their throats,
To be ſure was not thrown down their throats.
With your ſmalliliow nonſenſe, and all your queer bod-
Since Whiſky's a liquor divine: (drens
To be ſure the old ancients as well as the moderns,
Did not love a ſly ſup of good wine;
Did not love a ſly ſup of good wine.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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