Dear Tom, This Brown Jug
A song from 1761, said to have given the Toby Jug its name

Dear Tom, this brown jug, which now foams with mild ale,
Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the Vale,
Was once Toby Philpot, a thirsty old soul,
As e'er cracked a bottle, fathom'd a bowl;
In bousing 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 flower-woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With his friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away,
And with honest Old Stingo sat soaking his clay.
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he dies full as big as a Dorchester Butt.

His body when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had dissov'd it again,
A potter found out, in its covert so snug,
And with part of Fat Toby he form'd this brown jug;
Now sacred to friendship, to mirth, and mild ale ---
So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale.