e size
That he got into them.

Once in the company of merry mates,
In spite of Temperance's if's and buts,
So sure as Eating is set off with _plates_,
His Drinking always was bound up with _cuts_!
Howbeit, such Bacchanalian revels
Bring very sad catastrophes about;
Palsy, Dyspepsy, Dropsy, and Blue Devils,
Not to forget the Gout.
Sometimes the liver takes a spleenful whim
To grow to Strasburg's regulation size,
As if for those hepatical goose pies--
Or out of depth the head begins to swim--
Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him!
'Twas Christmas--he had drunk the night before,--
Like Baxter, who so "went beyond his last"--
_One_ bottle more, and then _one_ bottle more,
Till oh! the red-wine _Ruby-con_ was pass'd!
And homeward, by the short small chimes of day,
With many a circumbendibus to spare,
For instance, twice round Finsbury Square,
To use a fitting phrase, he _wound_ his way.

Then comes the rising, with repentance bitter,
And all the nerves--(and sparrows)--in a twitter,
Till settled by the sober Chinese cup:
The hands, o'er all, are members that make motions,
A sort of wavering, just like the ocean's,
Which has its swell, too, when it's getting up--
An awkward circumstance enough for elves
Who shave themselves;
And Simpson just was ready to go thro' it,
When lo! the first short glimpse within the glass--
He jump'd--and who alive would fail to do it?--
To see however it had come to pass,
One section of his face as green as grass!
In vain each eager wipe,
With soap--without--wet--hot or cold--or dry,
Still, still, and still, to his astonished eye
One cheek was green, the other cherry ripe!
Plump in the nearest chair he sat him down,
Quaking, and quite absorb'd in a deep study,--
But verdant and not brown,--
What could have happened to a tint so ruddy?

Indeed it was a very novel case,
By way of penalty for being jolly,
To have that evergreen stuck in his face,
Just like the windows with their Christmas holly.

"All claret marks,"--thought he--Tom knew his forte--
"Are red--this color CANNOT come from Port!"

One thing was plain; with such a face as his,
'Twas quite impossible to ever greet
Good Mrs. Brown; nay, any party meet,
Altho' 'twas such a parti-colored phiz!
As for the public, fancy Sarcy Ned,
The coachman, flying, dog-like, at his head,
With "Ax your pardon, Sir, but if you please--
Unless it comes too high--
Vere ought a feller, now, to g