Long ago, in the State of Maine, There lived a Judge—a good old soul, Rather well up in “genial vein,” And not by any means “down on” the bowl. N.B.—By “bowl” I mean the “cup,” And by “cup”—N.B.—I mean a _glass_, Since neither bowls nor cups go up At present when we our liquor pass. (Although I recall— ’Tis three years this Fall— When travelling in the wilderness, And things were all in an awful mess, And our crockery, with a horrible crash, Had gone its way to eternal smash) (It came, as the driver allowed, from racin’), We drank champagne from a tin wash-basin. Excuse the digression—_non est crimen_— And return to our Judge, whose name was Wyman. The Judge oft drank in a hostelrie Kept by a man whose name was Sterret, Where he met with jolly company, But where the whisky was void of merit. The real Minié rifle brand, That at forty rods kills out of hand. Well, it came to pass that one night the Judge At Sterret’s, after a long, hot day, Got so tight that he couldn’t budge, And found himself “well over the bay,” With a “snake in his boot” and one in his hat, Like a biled owl, or a monkey horned, Tangle-legged, hawk-eyed, on a bat, Peepy, skewered, and slewed, and corned. Couldn’t tell a skunk from a pint of Cologne, Couldn’t see the difference ’tween _fips_ and cents; And when he attempted to walk alone, Simply made a Virginia fence; Till liquor yielded at last to sleep, And he sank into Dream River—four miles deep. _Sanctus Ivus fuit Brito, advocatus sed non latro._ “Saint Ives the Briton first took a brief, For though a lawyer he wasn’t a thief.” This is what the story declares, Which says he listens to lawyers’ prayers. Likely enough! perhaps he may— Whenever a lawyer tries to pray! But another legend, old and quaint, Assigns them a different kind of saint, With a singular foot and peculiar hue, Whose breath is tinged with a beautiful blue; And this was _rather_ the saint, I think, Who inspired the young lawyers, twenty-four, Who helped Judge Wyman to stow his drink, And made them rejoice to hear him snore. Who, save the devil, would not have wept To see these graceless legal loons Tricking the good old Judge as he slept, And filling his pockets with Sterret’s spoons? With silver spoons; likewise for butter A handsome ten-dollar silver knife; Then put Judge Wyman on a shutter, And carried him home to his loving wife.