( THE BARITONE'S DRINKING SONG )

The Abbot he sits, as his rank befits,

With a bottle at either knee,

And he smacks his lips as he slowly sips

At his beaker of Malvoisie.

Sing Ho! Ho! Ho!

Let the red wine flow!

Let the sack flow fast and free!

His heart it grows merry on negus and sherry,

And never a care has he!

Ho! Ho!

( Ora pro nobis! )

Sing Ho! for the Malvoisie!

In cellar cool, on a highbacked stool,

The Friar he sits him down,

With the door tight shut, and an unbroached butt

Where the ale flows clear and brown.

Sing Ha! Sing Hi!

Till the cask runs dry,

His spirits shall never fail!

For no one is dryer than Francis the Friar,

When getting “outside the pail!”

Ho! Ho!

( Benedicimus! )

Sing Ho! for the nutbrown ale!

The Monk sits there, in his cell so bare,

And he lowers his tonsured head,

As he lifts the lid of the tankard hid

‘ Neath the straw of his trestle bed.

Sing Ho! Sink Hey!

From the break of day

Till the vesper-bell rings clear,

Of grave he makes merry and hastens to bury

His cares in the butt'ry BIER!

Ho! Ho!

( Pax Omnibuscum! )

Sing Ho! for the buttery beer!

Oh, find me some secure retreat,

Some Paradise for stricken souls,

Where amateurs no longer bleat

Their feeble baracoles,

From lungs that are so oddly placed

Where other people keep their waist;

Where public taste has quite outgrown

The faculty for being bored

By each anaemic baritone

Who murders “The Lost Chord,”

And singers, as a body, are

Cursed with a permanent catarrh!