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From The Wit and Humor of America, edited by Marshall P. Wilder, Volume IV, New York and London: Funk and Wagnalls and Company, 1911; pp. 765-766.




I and my cousin Wildair met
     And tossed a pot together —
Burnt sack it was that Molly brewed,
     For it was nipping weather.
’Fore George! To see Dick buss the wench
     Set all the inn folk laughing!
They dubbed him pearl of cavaliers
     At kissing and at quaffing.

“Oddsfish!” says Dick, “the sack is rare,
     And rarely burnt, fair Molly;
’Twould cure the sourest Crop-ear yet
     Of Pious Melancholy.”
“Egad!” says I, “here cometh one
     Hath been at ’s prayers but lately.”
— Sooth, Master Praise-God Barebones stepped
     Along the street sedately.

Dick Wildair, with a swashing bow,
     And touch of his Toledo,
Gave Merry Xmas to the rogue
     And bade him say his Credo;
Next crush a cup to the King’s health,
     And eke to pretty Molly;
“’T will cure your saintliness,” says Dick,
     “Of Pious Melancholy.”

Then Master Barebones stopped and frowned;
     My heart stood till a minute;
Thinks I, both Dick and I will hang,
     Or else the devil ’s in it!
For me, I care not for old Noll,
     Nor all the Rump together,
Yet, faith! ’t is best to be alive
     In pleasant Xmas weather.

His worship, Barebones, grimly smiled;
     “I love not blows nor brawling;
Yet will I give thee, fool, a pledge!”
     And, zooks! he sent Dick sprawling!
When Moll and I helped Wildair up,
     No longer trim and jolly —
“Feelst not, Sir Dick,” says saucy Moll,
     “A Pious Melancholy?”

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