Ere Will had done 'twas waxing wondrous late,
And reeling bucks the street began to scour,
While guardian watchmen, with a tottering gait,
Cried everything quite clear except the hour.

" Another pot, " says Tom, " and then
A song; and so good night, good gentlemen!

" I've lyrics, such as bon vivants indite,
In which your bibbers of champagne delight.
The poetaster, bawling them in clubs,
Obtains a miserably noted name;
And every noisy bacchanalian dubs
The singing-writer with a bastard fame. "