Where, by the tavern on the dale,
The thirsty horseman, nodding, lifts
The creaming horn of corny ale.
That curves and fattens on its bed,
From his own vats, right jolly fare,
Full thirty suns mine host hath fed.
For he, whose cellar is his pride,
Gives stouter ale and riper port
Than any in the countryside.
He strokes his beard before he speaks;
And when he laughs, his little eyes
Are swallowed in his pampered cheeks.
With jokes you never heard before,
And sometimes with a twinkling drop
For those who will not taste it more.