Dear Sir, this brown jug, that now foams with mild ale, Out of which I now drink to sweet Kate of the vale, Was once Toby Philpot, a thirsty old soul As e'er cracked a bottle or fathomed a bowl. In boozing about 'twas his pride to excel, And amongst jolly topers he bore off the bell. It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease In his flow'r woven arbour, as gay as you please, With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away, And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut And he died full as big as the Dorchester butt. His body when long in the ground it had lain, And time unto clay had dissolved it again, A potter found out in its covert so snug, And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug, Now sacred to friendship, to mirth, and mild ale, So here's to my lovely sweet Kate of the vale.