are_--(hiccup)--_Thracum
est_--therefore we--will not fight--but we will drink--_recepto dulce
mihi furere est amico_--Jacob, thou art drunk--sing, friend Dux, or
shall I sing?

"_Propria quae maribus_ had a little dog,
_Quae genus_ was his name--

"My memory faileth me--what was the tune?"

"That tune was the one the old cow died of, I'm sure," replied Tom.
"Come, old Nosey, strike up again."

"Nosey, from _nasus_--truly, it is a fair epithet; and it remindeth me
that my nose--suffered in the fall which I received just now. Yet I
cannot sing--having no words--"

"Nor tune, either, master," replied old Tom; "so here goes for you--

"Young Susan had lovers, so many that she
Hardly knew upon which to decide;
They all spoke sincerely, and promised to be
All worthy of such a sweet bride.
In the morning she'd gossip with William, and then
The noon will be spent with young Harry,
The evening with Tom; so, amongst all the men,
She never could tell which to marry.
Heigho! I am afraid
Too many lovers will puzzle a maid.

"It pleaseth me--it ringeth in mine ears--yea, most pleasantly.
Proceed,--the girl was as the Pyrrha of Horace--

"Quis multa gracillis--te puer in rosa--
Perfusis liquidis urgit odoribus.
Grate, Pyrrha--sub antro?"

"That's all high Dutch to me, master; but I'll go on if I can. My
memory box be a little out of order. Let me see--oh!

"Now William grew jealous, and so went away;
Harry got tired of wooing;
And Tom having teased her to fix on the day,
Received but a frown for so doing;
So, 'mongst all her lovers, quite left in the lurch,
She pined every night on her pillow;
And meeting one day a pair going to church,
Turned away, and died under a willow.
Heigho! I am afraid
Too many lovers will puzzle a maid.

"Now, then, old gentleman, tip off your grog. You've got your
allowance, as I promised you."

"Come, master, you're a cup too low," said Tom, who, although in high
spirits, was not at all intoxicated; indeed, as I afterwards found, he
could carry more than his father. "Come, shall I give you a song?"

"That's right, Tom; a volunteer's worth two pressed men. Open your
mouth wide, an' let your whistle fly away with the gale. You whistles
in tune, at all events."

Tom then struck up, the Dominie see-sawing as he sat, and getting very
sleepy--

"Luck in life, or good or bad,
Ne'er could make me melancholy;
Seldom rich,