Of the ancients is't speaking my soul you be after

Of the ancients is't speaking my soul you be after,
Dat they never got how come you so?
Would you sariously make the good folks die with laughter?
To be sure their dog's tricks we don't know.
Wid your smalliliow nonsense, and all your queer bodderns,
Since whisky's a liquor divine,
Do be sure the old ancients, as well as the moderns,
Did not love a sly sup of good wine.

Apicius and Aesop, as authors assure us,
Would swig till as drunk as a beast,
Den what do you think of that rogue Epicurus?
Was not he a tight hand at a feast.
Wid your smallilow, &c.

Alexander the great, at his banquets who drank hard,
When he no more worlds could subdue,
Shed tears to be sure, but 'twas tears of the tankard,
To refresh him—and pray would not you?
Wid your smalliliow, &c.

Den that other old fellow they call Aristotle,
Such a devil of a tipler was he,
That one night, having taken too much of his bottle,
The taef staggered into the sea.
Wid your smalliliow, &c.

Den they made what they called of their wine a libation'
Which, as all authority quotes,
They threw on the ground, musha what boderation,
To be sure 'twas not thrown down their throats.
Wid your smalliliow, &c.