Tom Simpson was as nice a kind of man As ever lived--at least at number Four, In Austin Friars, in Mrs. Brown’s first floor, At fifty pounds,--or thereabouts,--per ann. The Lady reckon’d him her best of lodgers, His rent so punctually paid each quarter,-- He did not smoke like nasty foreign codgers-- Nor play French horns like Mr. Rogers-- Or talk his flirting nonsense to her daughter-- Not that the girl was light behaved or courtable-- Still on one failing tenderly to touch, The Gentleman did like a drop too much, (Tho’ there are many such) And took more Port than was exactly portable. In fact,--to put the cap upon the nipple, And try the charge,--Tom certainly _did_ tipple. He thought the motto was but sorry stuff On Cribb’s Prize Cup--Yes, wrong in ev’ry letter-- That “D----d be he who first cries _Hold Enough_!” The more cups hold, and if enough, the better. And so to set example in the eyes Of Fancy’s lads, and give a broadish hint to them, All his cups were of such ample size That he got into them. Once in the company of merry mates, In spite of Temperance’s ifs 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 Strasbourg’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.