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And impelled me to frequently roll,
And made me resistlessly roll.
Till my ten-strikes created a panic
In the realms of the Boreal pole,
Till my ten-strikes created a panic,
With the monkey a-top of his pole.

I repeat, I was perfectly sober,
But my thoughts they were palsied and sere—
My thoughts were decidedly queer;
For I knew not the month was October,
And I marked not the night of the year;
I forgot that sweet morceau of Auber,
That the band oft performéd down here,
And I mixed the sweet music of Auber
With the Nightingale's music by Shear.

And now as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to morn,
And car-drivers hinted of morn,
At the end of the path a liquescent
And bibulous lustre was born;
'T was made by the bar-keeper present,