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 go to buy The t'other half, Sir, of that 'ere green cheese?" His mind recoil'd--so he tied up his head, As with a raging tooth, and took to bed; Of course with feelings far from the serene, For all his future prospects seemed to be, To match his customary tea, Black, mixt with green.