Classic Poem

'Tis late and cold; stir up the fire;
Sit close, and draw the table nigher.
Be merry, and drink wine that's old,
A hearty medicine 'gainst a cold.
Your beds of wanton down the best,
Where you shall tumble to your rest;
I could wish you wenches, too,
But I am dead, and cannot do.
Call for the best the house may ring,
Sack, white, and claret, let them bring.
And drink apace, while breath you have;
You'll find but cold drink in the grave.
Plover, partridge, for your dinner,
And a capon for the sinner,
You shall find ready when you're up,
And your horse shall have his sup.
"Welcome! welcome!" shall fly round,
And I shall smile, though underground.