Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow,
  Now to her that’s as brown as a berry;
Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe,
  And now to the damsel that’s merry: 
    Let the toast pass,
    Drink to the lass—­
    I warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.

For let her be clumsy, or let her be slim,
  Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim,
  And let us e’en toast ’em together: 
    Let the toast pass,
    Drink to the lass—­
    I warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.

        R.  B. Sheridan.

THE LEATHER BOTTEL.

’Twas God above that made all things,
The heav’ns, the earth, and all therein: 
The ships that on the sea do swim
To guard from foes that none come in;
And let them all do what they can,
’Twas for one end—­the use of man. 
  So I wish in heav’n his soul may dwell
  That first found out the leather bottel.

Now, what do you say to these cans of wood? 
Oh, no, in faith they cannot be good;
For if the bearer fall by the way,
Why, on the ground your liquor doth lay;
But had it been in a leather bottel,
Although he had fallen all had been well. 
  So I wish in heav’n his soul may dwell
  That first found out the leather bottel.

Then what do you say to these glasses fine? 
Oh, they shall have no praise of mine;
For if you chance to touch the brim,
Down falls the liquor and all therein. 
But had it been in a leather bottel,
And the stopple in, all had been well. 
  So I wish in heav’n his soul may dwell
  That first found out the leather bottel.

Then what do you say to these black pots three? 
If a man and his wife should not agree,
Why, they’ll tug and pull till their liquor doth spill;
In a leather bottel they may tug their fill,
And pull away till their hearts do ake,
And yet their liquor no harm can take. 
  So I wish in heav’n his soul may dwell
  That first found out the leather bottel.

Then what do you say to these flagons fine? 
Oh, they shall have no praise of mine;
For when a lord is about to dine,
And sends them to be filled with wine,
The man with the flagon doth run away,
Because it is silver most gallant and gay
    So I wish in heav’n his soul may dwell
    That first found out the leather bottel.

A leather bottel we know is good,
Far better than glasses or cans of wood;
For when a man’s at work in the field
Your glasses and pots no comfort will yield;
But a good leather bottel standing by
Will raise his spirits whenever he’s dry. 
  So I wish in heav’n his soul may dwell
  That first found out the leather bottel.

At noon the haymakers sit them down,
To drink from their bottles of ale nut-brown;
In summer, too, when the weather is warm,
A good bottle full will do them no harm. 
Then the lads and the lasses begin to tottle,
But what would they do without this bottle? 
  So I wish in heav’n his soul may dwell
  That first found out the leather bottel.