Verses and Translations Part 4

(As Gilpin said) "the middle of my song."

Not that "the middle" is precisely true, Or else I should not tax your patience long: If I had said 'beginning,' it might do; But I have a dislike to quoting wrong: I was unlucky--sinned against, not sinning - When Cowper wrote down 'middle' for 'beginning.'

So to proceed. That abstinence from Malt Has always struck me as extremely curious.

The Greek mind must have had some vital fault, That they should stick to liquors so injurious - (Wine, water, tempered p'raps with Attic salt) - And not at once invent that mild, luxurious, And artful beverage, Beer. How the digestion Got on without it, is a startling question.

Had they digestions? and an actual body Such as dyspepsia might make attacks on?

Were they abstract ideas--(like Tom Noddy And Mr. Briggs)--or men, like Jones and Jackson?

Then Nectar--was that beer, or whiskey-toddy?

Some say the Gaelic mixture, _I_ the Saxon: I think a strict adherence to the latter Might make some Scots less pigheaded, and fatter.

Besides, Bon Gaultier definitely shews That the real beverage for feasting G.o.ds on Is a soft compound, grateful to the nose And also to the palate, known as 'Hodgson.'

I know a man--a tailor's son--who rose To be a peer: and this I would lay odds on, (Though in his Memoirs it may not appear,) That that man owed his rise to copious Beer.

O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Ba.s.s!

Names that should be on every infant's tongue!

Shall days and months and years and centuries pa.s.s, And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?

Oh! I have gazed into my foaming gla.s.s, And wished that lyre could yet again be strung Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her Misguided sons that "the best drink was water."

How would he now recant that wild opinion, And sing--as would that I could sing--of you!

I was not born (alas!) the "Muses' minion,"

I'm not poetical, not even blue: And he (we know) but strives with waxen pinion, Whoe'er he is that entertains the view Of emulating Pindar, and will be Sponsor at last to some now nameless sea.

Oh! when the green slopes of Arcadia burned With all the l.u.s.tre of the dying day, And on Cithaeron's brow the reaper turned, (Humming, of course, in his delightful way, How Lycidas was dead, and how concerned The Nymphs were when they saw his lifeless clay; And how rock told to rock the dreadful story That poor young Lycidas was gone to glory:)

What would that lone and labouring soul have given, At that soft moment, for a pewter pot!

How had the mists that dimmed his eye been riven, And Lycidas and sorrow all forgot!

If his own grandmother had died unshriven, In two short seconds he'd have recked it not; Such power hath Beer. The heart which Grief hath canker'd Hath one unfailing remedy--the Tankard.

Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa; Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen: When 'Dulce et desipere in loco'

Was written, real Falernian winged the pen.

When a rapt audience has encored 'Fra Poco'

Or 'Casta Diva,' I have heard that then The Prima Donna, smiling herself out, Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout.

But what is coffee, but a noxious berry, Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?

What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry, But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache?

Nay stout itself--(though good with oysters, very) - Is not a thing your reading man should take.

He that would s.h.i.+ne, and petrify his tutor, Should drink draught Allsop in its "native pewter."

But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear - A soft and silvery sound--I know it well.

Its tinkling tells me that a time is near Precious to me--it is the Dinner Bell.

O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer, Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell: Seared is (of course) my heart--but unsubdued Is, and shall be, my appet.i.te for food.

I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen: But on one statement I may safely venture; That few of our most highly gifted men Have more appreciation of the trencher.

I go. One pound of British beef, and then What Mr. Swiveller called a "modest quencher;"

That home-returning, I may 'soothly say,'

"Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day."

ODE TO TOBACCO.

Thou who, when fears attack, Bid'st them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is grey; Sweet, when they've cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told, Not to thy credit; How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost - Useless, except to roast - Doctors have said it:

How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks!

Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbours; Jones--who, I'm glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J.) - Daily absorbs a clay After his labours.

Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken?

We're not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar!

Jones, the tobacco-jar!

Here's to thee, Bacon!

DOVER TO MUNICH.

Farewell, farewell! Before our prow Leaps in white foam the noisy channel, A tourist's cap is on my brow, My legs are cased in tourists' flannel:

Around me gasp the invalids - (The quant.i.ty to-night is fearful) - I take a brace or so of weeds, And feel (as yet) extremely cheerful.

The night wears on:- my thirst I quench With one imperial pint of porter; Then drop upon a casual bench - (The bench is short, but I am shorter) -

Place 'neath my head the harve-sac Which I have stowed my little all in, And sleep, though moist about the back, Serenely in an old tarpaulin.

Bed at Ostend at 5 A.M.

Breakfast at 6, and train 6.30.

Tickets to Konigswinter (mem.

The seats objectionably dirty).

And onward through those dreary flats We move, with scanty s.p.a.ce to sit on, Flanked by stout girls with steeple hats, And waists that paralyse a Briton; -

By many a tidy little town, Where tidy little Fraus sit knitting; (The men's pursuits are, lying down, Smoking perennial pipes, and spitting;)

And doze, and execrate the heat, And wonder how far off Cologne is, And if we shall get aught to eat, Till we get there, save raw polonies:

Until at last the "grey old pile"

Is seen, is past, and three hours later We're ordering steaks, and talking vile Mock-German to an Austrian waiter.