Every time he opened his lips there was sure to be a roar,
and sometimes before he had time to speak.
We were fortunate enough to enter in time for a glee composed by him
expressly for the club, and which he sang with two boon companions, who
would have been worthy subjects for Hogarth's pencil. As they were each
provided with a written copy, I was enabled to procure the reading of
it.
Merrily, merrily push round the glass,
And merrily troll the glee,
For he who won't drink till he wink is an ass,
So neighbor I drink to thee.
Merrily, merrily puddle thy nose,
Until it right rosy shall be;
For a jolly red nose, I speak under the rose,
Is a sign of good company.
We waited until the party broke up, and no one but the wit remained. He
sat at the table with his legs stretched under it, and wide apart; his
hands in his breeches pockets; his head drooped upon his breast; and
gazing with lack-lustre countenance on an empty tankard. His gayety was
gone, his fire completely quenched.
My companion approached and startled him from his fit of brown study,
introducing himself on the strength of their having dined together at
the booksellers'.
"By the way," said he, "it seems to me I have seen you before; your
face is surely the face of an old acquaintance, though for the life of
me I cannot tell where I have known you."
"Very likely," said he with a smile; "many of my old friends have
forgotten me.
