Classic Poem

I DEVISE to end my days—in a tavern drinking,
May some Christian hold for me—the glass when I am shrinking;
That the Cherubim may cry—when they see me sinking,
God be merciful to a soul—of this gentleman's way of thinking.

A glass of wine amazingly—enlighteneth one's internals;
'Tis wings bedewed with nectar—that fly up to supernals;
Bottles cracked in taverns—have much the sweeter kernels
Than the sups allowed to us—in the college journals

Every one by nature hath—a mould which he was cast in;
I happen to be one of those—who never could write fasting;
By a single little boy—I should be surpassed in
Writing so: I'd just as lief—be buried, tombed and grassed in.

Every one by nature hath—a gift too, a dotation:
I, when I make verses,—do get the inspiration
Of the very best of wine—that comes into the nation:
It maketh sermons to abound—for edification.

Just as liquor floweth good—floweth forth my lay so;
But I must moreover eat—or I could not say so;
Nought it availeth inwardly—should I write all day so;
But with God's grace after meat—I beat Ovidius Naso.

Neither is there given to me—prophetic animation,
Unless when I have eat and drank—yea, ev'n to saturation;
Then in my upper story—hath Bacchus domination,
And Phœbus rusheth into me, and beggareth all relation.