becomes a poet in his cups, and in thine own vein;
for what says Spenser?--

'For Bacchus' fruit is friend to Phoebus wise;
And when, with wine, the brain begins to sweat,
The numbers flow as fast as spring doth rise.'"

"By Jove, boys! you shall have it," cried Rhimeson, filling his glass
with unsteady hand, and muttering, from the same prince of poets--

"'Who can counsell a thirstie soule,
With patience to forbeare the offred bowle?'"

"That is the pure well of English undefiled, old fellows, and so here
goes--'The Lass we Love!'

TUNE--'_Duncan Davison._'

"Come, fill your glass, my trusty friend,
And fill it sparkling to the brim--
A flowing bumper, bright and strong--
And push the bottle back again;
For what is man without his drink?
An oyster prison'd in his shell;
A rushlight in the vaults of death;
A rattlesnake without his tail.

CHORUS.

This world, we know, is full of cares,
And sorrow darkens every day;
But wine and love shall be the stars
To light us on our weary way.

Beyond yon hills there lives a lass,
Her name I dare not even speak;
The wine that sparkles in my glass
Was ne'er so rosy as her cheek.
Her neck is clearer than the spring
That streams the water lilies on;
So, here's to her I long have loved--
The fairest flower in Albion.

Let knaves and fools this world divide,
As they have done since Adam's time;
Let misers by their hoards abide,
And poets weave their rotten rhyme;
But ye, who, in an hour like this,
Feel every pulse to rapture move,
Fill high! each lip the goblet kiss--
The pledge shall be--'The Lass we Love!'"

After a good deal of roaritorious applause, the young gentlemen began to
act upon the hint contained in the song, and each to give, as a toast,
the lady of his heart. When it came to Elliot's turn, he declared he was
unable to fulfil the conditions of the toast, as there was not a woman
in the world for whom he had the slightest predilection.

"Why, thou personified snowball! thou human icicle!" cried Whitaker.

"Say an avalanche," interrupted Frank; "for, when once my heart is
shaken, it will be as irresistible in its course as one of these
'thunderbolts of snow.'"

"Still, it's nothing but cold snow, for all that," cried Harry.

"Who talks of Frank Elliot