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A Tankard of Ale |
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I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,
I press her ringlets wavy, And in her willing ear I speak,
A most religious Ave.
And if I'm blind, yet Heaven is kind,
And holy saints forgiving; For sure he leads a right good life,
Who thus admires good living. Above, they say, our flesh is air,
Our blood celestial ichor: Oh, grant! 'mid all the changes there,
They may not change our liquor! |
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THE GHOSTS1
By Thomas Love Peacock (1785-1866)
In life three ghostly friars were we, And now three friarly ghosts we be,
Around our shadowy table placed, The spectral bowl before us floats :
With wine that none but ghosts can taste, We wash our unsubstantial throats. Three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts—three merry
ghosts are we : Let the ocean be Port, and we'll think it good sport To be laid in that Red Sea !
1 From " Melincourt."
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