Parson Herrick's Muse
By C. W. Dalmon
The parson dubs us, in our cups,
"A tipsy, good-for-nothing crew!"
It matters not—it may be false;
It matters not—it may be true.
But here's to parson Herrick's Muse!
Drink to it, dear old comrades, please!
And, prithee, for my tombstone choose
A verse from his "Hesperides."
"A tipsy, good-for-nothing crew!"
It matters not—it may be false;
It matters not—it may be true.
But here's to parson Herrick's Muse!
Drink to it, dear old comrades, please!
And, prithee, for my tombstone choose
A verse from his "Hesperides."
The parson's rich, but we are poor;
And we are wrong, but he is right—
Who knows how much his cellar holds,
Or how he goes to bed at night?
But here's to parson Herrick's Muse!
Drink to it, dear old comrades, please!
And, prithee, for my tombstone choose
A verse from his "Hesperides."
And we are wrong, but he is right—
Who knows how much his cellar holds,
Or how he goes to bed at night?
But here's to parson Herrick's Muse!
Drink to it, dear old comrades, please!
And, prithee, for my tombstone choose
A verse from his "Hesperides."
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