Classic Poem

In his last bin Sir Peter lies,
Who knew not what it was to frown;
Death took him mellow, by surprise,
And in his cellar stopped him down.
Through all our land we could not boast
A knight more gay, more prompt than he
To rise and fill a bumper toast,
And pass it round with “Three times Three!”

None better knew the feast to sway,
Or keep mirth's boat in better trim;
For Nature had but little clay
Like that of which she moulded him.
The meanest guest that graced his board
Was there the freest of the free,
His bumper toast when Peter poured
And passed it round with “Three times Three!”

He kept at true good humor's mark
The social flow of pleasure's tide;
He never made a brow look dark,
Nor caused a tear but when he died.
No sorrow round his tomb should dwell:
More pleased his gay old ghost would be,
For funeral song and passing bell,
To hear no sound but “Three times Three!”