So helping a thirsty old friend in his need Is my duty--take heart, thou art welcome indeed. Then the smith with his tools in Sir John made a breach, And the toper he hiccuped and ended his speech; And pulled at the quart, till the snob he declared When he went to drink next that the bottom was bared. No matter for that, said the toper, and grinned; I had but a soak and neer rested for wind. That's the law, said the smith, with a look rather vexed, But the quart was a forfeit; so pay for the next. Thus they talked of their skill and their labour till noon When the sober man's toil was exactly half done, And there the plough lay--people hardly could pass And the horses let loose polished up the short grass And browsed on the bottle of flags lying there, By the gipsey's old budget, for mending a chair. The miller's horse tied to the old smithy door Stood stamping his feet, by the flies bitten sore, Awaiting the smith as he wanted a shoe; And he stampt till another fell off and made two: Till the miller, expecting that all would get loose, Went to seek him and cursed him outright for a goose; But he dipt his dry beak in the mug once or twice And forgot all his passion and toil in a trice. And the flybitten horse at the old smithy post Might stamp till his shoes and his legs they were lost. He sung his old songs and forgot his old mill-- Blow winds high or low, she might rest her at will. And the cobbler, in spite of his bustle for pelf, Left the shop all the day to take care of itself. And the toper who carried his house on his head, No wife to be teazing, no bairns to be fed, Would sit out the week or the month or the year Or a life-time so long as he'd credit for beer. The ploughman he talked of his skill as divine, How he could plough thurrows as straight as a line; And the blacksmith he swore, had he but the command, He could shoe the king's hunter the best in the land; And the cobbler declared, was his skill but once seen, He should soon get an order for shoes from the queen. But the tinker he swore he could beat them all three, For gi' me a pair of old bellows, says he, And I'll make them roar out like the wind in a storm And make them blow fire out of coal hardly warm. The toper said nothing but wished the quart full And swore he could toss it all off at a pull. Have one, said the tinker; but wit was away, When the bet was to bind him he'd nothing to pay. And thus in the face of life's sun-and-shower weather They drank, bragged, and sung, and got merry together.