The Ingoldsby Lyrics :: :: University of Virginia Library

Dear Doctor,—This jug, which can't foam with mild ale,
While you turn down its top so, to look at its tail,
Was not Toby Fillpot's—and yet on the whole,
It's as good as the jug of that thirsty old soul;
For boozing about it will answer as well,
And when fill'd with my mixture will bear off the bell.
When you chance in the dog-days to sit at your ease,
A pint of sweet mountain, as old as you please,
With a bottle of iced soda-water allay,
Then of honest old “Stingo,” a pint pour away,
Pop in nutmeg, one slice from a cucumber cut,
And then drink till you're full as a Dorchester butt.
A body of friends should you long entertain,
And they empty it often—why, fill it again;
Don't potter about Toby Fillpot's brown jug,
Say, “That for old Toby!—give me my white mug;
It's sacred to friendship, white wine, and mild ale,”
So up with its mouth now and turn down its tail!