Song.

. . . . . 'Nec

Parce cadis tibi destinatis.'—Horace.

Home they brought the young man drunk,
He could neither speak nor stand;
Low he lay within his bunk,
Under Bacchus' magic wand.
All his friends around him stood,
Not amazed the sight to see;
Topers were they all and good,
Yet was none so good as he.
Then they raised his drooping head,
Kindly freed him from his shoes,
Gently laid him in his bed,
Left him verging on the blues.