The Cellar Door

By the old tavern door on the causey there lay A hogshead of stingo just rolled from a dray, And there stood the blacksmith awaiting a drop As dry as the cinders that lay in his shop; And there stood the cobbler as dry as a bun, Almost crackt like a bucket when left in the sun. He'd whetted his knife upon pendil and hone Till he'd not got a spittle to moisten the stone; So ere he could work--though he'd lost the whole day-- He must wait the new broach and bemoisten his clay.…