Dear Tom, this brown jug, that now foams with mild ale,

(In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale)

Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul

As e’er drank a bottle or fathomed a bowl;

In boosing about ‘t was his praise to excel,

And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.

It chanced, as in dog-days he sat at his ease,

In his flower-woven arbour, as gay as you please,

With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrows away,

And with honest old Stingo was soaking his clay,

His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,

And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.

His body when long in the ground it had lain,

And time into clay had resolved it again,

A potter found out in its covert so snug,

And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug;

Now sacred to friendship, to mirth, and mild ale,

So here ‘s to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale.