Fill with mingled cream and amber,
I will drain that glass again.
Such hilarious visions clamber
Through the chamber of my brain ---
Quaintest thoughts --- queerest fancies
Come to life and fade away;
What care I how time advances?
I am drinking Ale today!
Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,
But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm
Besides I can tell where I am use'd well,
Such usage in heaven will never do well.
But if at the Church they would give us some Ale
And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale;
We'd sing and we'd pray, all the live-long day;
Nor ever ance wish from the Church to stray,
Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing.
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring:
And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Chua
Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch.
And God like a father rejoicing to see,
His children as pleasant and happy as he:
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel
But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.
In the year of 1642, in a little cider mill, a poor old dog lay down to rest, and for he was feeling ill, He purched above the apple press, And in his sleep he tumbled in, and perished in distress. This caused his master for to grieve, likewise his mistress too, Until their sorrows were relieved when they sampled of the brew, "A-ha," cried Farmer Attwater, "the likes I ne'er did sup," So he summoned all the neighbors in and bade them drink a cup. Now every man who drank that night got drunk as drunk could be, And they wondered how the scrumpy had gained such potency, But the farmer kept his counsel, and they took another drop, Then all at once the poor old dog came floating to the top! A silence fell upon the room, and every man did frown, They recognized old Bendingo, though he was upside down, The Squire lost his color and collapsed upon the floor, And the Vicar lost his britches in the rush to reach the door. "Fear not," cried Farmer Attwater, "for in all his life I vow, He never bit no man, nor dog, and he'll not bite one now! And this shall be his epitaph, 'Here lies our faithful Ben, Who perished in the scrumpy vat, and quickly rose again'." So if ever you're in Devon and you go into a bar, Ask for Dead Dog Scrumpy, it's the best there is by far, Refuse all imitations, and you'll sleep just like a log, And you can always recognize by the fine hair of the dog!
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 Nam of the Vale.
Here, With my beer I sit While golden moments flit: Alas! They pass Unheeded by: And, as they fly, I, Being dry, Sit, idly sipping here My beer O, finer far Than fame, or riches, are The graceful smoke-wreaths of this free cigar! Why Should I Weep, wail, or sigh? What if luck has passed me by? What if my hopes are dead,- My pleasures fled? Have I not still My fill Of right good cheer,- Cigars and beer? Go, whining youth, Forsooth! Go, weep and wail, Sigh and grow pale, Weave melancholy rhymes On the old times, Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,- But leave to me my beer! Gold is dross,- Love is loss,- So, if I gulp my sorrows down, Or see them drown In foamy draughts of old nut-brown, Then do I wear the crown, Without the cross!