Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.

The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.

Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack And leave your friends and go.

Could man be drunk for ever With liquor, love, or fights, Lief should I rouse at morning And lief lie down of nights. But men at whiles are sober And think by fits and starts, And if they think, they fasten Their hands upon their hearts.

The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn.

Ten thousand times I've done my best and all's to do again.

They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up.