Classic Poem

H ERE'S to you, dear old Patrick,
In tuns of Irish wine,
That tastes of bog and peat-fire,
And that merry heart of thine!
A hundred healths I've pledged you,
A hundred more I'll drink!
God keeps you, His pet crony,
Near His right hand, I think!

You, doubtless, sit there musing
O'er the life that had to pass;
Why don't you come and join me
In one last fragrant glass!
In body 'tis not possible—
You've cast flesh-pots away;
But aid me with your spirit
To drink your natal day!

You won't? 'Tis not your fault, then:
You've had your little fling,
And now you're sublimated—
Wear halo, robe, and wing!
But know, my dear old fellow,
I've kindly thoughts of thee
As I quaff this nightcap, dreaming
Of Seventeenths to be!