Dawson the butler’s dead: Although I think
Poets were ne’re infus’d with single drink,
I’ll spend a farthing, muse; a watry verse
Will serve the turn to cast upon his herse.
If any cannot weep amongst us here,
Take off his cup, and so squeeze out a tear.
Weep, O ye barrels! let your drippings fall
In trickling streams; make waste more prodigal
Than when our beer was good, that John may float
To Styx in beer, and lift up Charons boat
With wholsome waves: and, as the conduits ran
With claret at the Coronation,
So let your channels flow with single tiff,
For John, I hope, is crown’d: Take off your whiff,
Ye men of rosemary[114], and drink up all,
Remembring ’tis a butlers funeral:
Had he been master of good double beer,
My life for his, John Dawson had been here.