Classic Poem

When Gullion died (who knows not Gullion?)
And his dry soul arrived at Acheron,
He fair besought the ferryman of hell
That he might drink to dead Pantagruel.
Charon was 'fraid lest thirsty Gullion
Would have drunk dry the river Acheron;
Yet last consented for a little hire,
And down he dips his chops deep in the mire,
And drinks, and drinks, and swallows in the stream
Until the shallow shores all naked seem.
Yet still he drinks, nor can the boatman's cries,
Nor crabbed oars, nor prayers make him rise.
So long he drinks till the black caravel
Stands still fast gravelled on the mud of hell.
There stand they still, nor can go, nor retire,
Though greedy ghosts quick passage did require.
Yet stand they still, as though they lay at road,
Till Gullion his bladder would unload.
They stand, and wait, and pray for that good hour;
Which when it came, they sailed to the shore.
But never since dareth the ferryman
Once entertain the ghost of Gullion.
Drink on, dry soul, and pledge Sir Gullion:
Drink to all healths, but drink not to thine own.