THE VILLAGE GROG SHOP.
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village grog shop stands;
The host a thirsty man is he,
With large and bloated hands;
And the vessels of his beery charms
Are bright in pewter bands.
His tap is "Watney," "Meux," and "Long,"
And bitter as the tan;
His till is fill'd with ready coin,
He cheats whene'er he can,
He looks the whole "Bench" in the face,
And he trusts not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear the liquor flow;
And after hours the bobby's tread,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a convict working the cheerful mill
When his morals have been low.
And maidens, not long freed from school,
Jot down th' increasing score,
They love to see the lab'rers gorge,
And hear the rustics roar,
And catch th' attempted wits—so "fly,"
With chaff—from a sawdust floor.
He goes in Sessions 'fore the Bench,
And sits among the crowd;
He hears the "unpaid" jaw and preach,
He hears his counsel's voice
Pleading with legalic fire;
And licensed, has his choice.
It makes him think of the Three per Cents.
Wherein his money lies!
He needs must think of her once more
How in the bar she plies,
And with his hard rough hands he lifts
His beer-mug to the skies.
Spoiling—adult'ring—borrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some cask begun,
Each evening sees its close;
Somebody tempted, something won,
Has earned the pub's repose."
Mirth, March, 1878. F. H. S.