Parson Herrick’s Muse

THE parson dubs us, in our cups,
“A tipsy, good-for-nothing crew !”
It matters not—it may be false ;
It matters not—it may be true.
But here’s to parson Herrick’s Muse !
Drink to it, dear old comrades, please !
And, prithee, for my tombstone choose
A verse from his “Hesperides.”

The parson’s rich, but we are poor ;
And we are wrong, but he is right—
Who knows how much his cellar holds,
Or how he goes to bed at night ?
But here’s to parson Herrick’s Muse !
Drink to it, dear old comrades, please !
And, prithee, for my tombstone choose
A verse from his “Hesperides.”

                                                The

The landlord shall our parson be ;
The tavern-door our churchyard gate ;
And we will fill the landlord’s till
Before we fill the parson’s plate !
But here’s to parson Herrick’s Muse !
Drink to it, dear old comrades, please !
And, prithee, for my tombstone choose
A verse from his “Hesperides.”