The barrell wur tapped, and the beer runned well, How much they vour drenked I never heard tell; But zome how or other they one and all Did zwear as how the drenk wur small. Derry down, &c. Owld Tovey at this did look main scrow;[37] Zays he, “My vriends, I’d hev’ee to kneow That my beer has made ’ee as drunk as pegs, And not one o’ you dree can kip on his legs.” Derry down, &c. They left the house, and the path they tuk, Athert the meadow as leads to the bruk; And you plainly med zee as every man Had a pair o’ crooked stockings an. Derry down, &c. Zays Mabbott to Ockle, “Owld Tovey wur zurly;” Zays Ockle to Mabbott, “I’m uncommon purly;[38] Be mindful, I zay, vor yer missuses’ zakes, Which o’ them two narrer bridges you takes.” Derry down, &c. “The bruk is main deep,” Gaarge Mabbott then zaid, As he looked at the water, and scratted his yead; “And I owns I should ’mazinly like for to know Auver which o’ thay bridges you aims vor to go.” Derry down, &c. “’Tis a akkerdish place to crass in the night, And to stand here till marnin’ wouldn’t be right; ’T’ain’t a mossell o’ use to bide stabbleing[39] here, Zo let’s go back and vinish the barrel o’ beer.” Derry down, &c. “A good cast, Doctor;” said the long scholar; “but you’ve raised the wrong fish. That isn’t what my friend here meant by a drinking song. He expects a bucolic rendering of one of Moore’s songs, and you serve him out a queer pot-house tale. Is there no enthusiasm for good drink amongst you?” “I wish there were less,” said the Doctor, with a sigh; “at any rate, less consumption of bad drink. Tippling is our great curse, as it is that of all England; but there’s less of it than there used to be. But for a drinking song such as you mean, I’m at fault. The nearest approach to it that I know of is a song of which I only remember two lines. They run-- “Sartinly the sixpenny’s the very best I’ve see’d yet, I do not like the fourpenny, nor yet the intermediate. “But even here you see, though the poet was meditating on drink, it was in a practical rather than an enthusiastic spirit.” Just then, a stout old yeoman entered the booth, dressed in a broad straight-cut brown coat with metal buttons, drab breeches, and mahogany tops; and, marching up to the bar, ordered a glass of brandy and water; while his drink was being prepared, he stood with his back to our table, talking to the landlord. “We’re in luck,” said the Doctor in a low voice, pointing to the new-comer with the end of his pipe; “if he stays, we shall have the best old song in all the west country, sung as it should be.” “Who is he?” asked the short scholar.