THE TIPPLER'S TRIUMPH.

Alas! we deemed him purposeless; the vinous smile that flickered up

Across his glowing countenance was meaningless to us.

We only saw a drunkard who addressed us, as he liquored up,

Not always too politely, and in words that sounded thus.

"All ri' you needn' 'shult me, I'm a berrer man than you;

Mr. Goschen couldn' shpare me as a shource of revenue."

And when we led him home at night we scorned the foolish antic all

That flung him into gutters, made him friendly with a post;

And we snubbed him when he told us—we were always too pedantical—

That he saw a thousand niggers dressed in red on buttered toast.

He was better, now I know it, than our soberheaded crew,

We who added not a farthing to the country's revenue.

And, oh, the folly of his wife, I scarcely can imagine it,

When to his room he reeled at last and went to bed in boots.

And she, with all the bearing of a Tudor or Plantagenet,

Said royally, "We loathe you; you're no better than the brutes."

Shame upon her thus to rate him, for philanthropists are few

Who as much relieve our burdens, or increase the revenue.

But now we know that Surpluses will come to fill the Treasury,

If only, like the sea-port towns, we all keep drinking rum;

And he who swills unceasingly, and always without measure, he

Is truly patriotic, though Blue-ribbonites look glum.

For to him, above all others, easy temperance is due,

Since he cheapens tea by twopence as a source of revenue.

Then here's to those who toasted well the national prosperity,

And swelled the Surplus, draining whiskey, brandy, gin, or beer;

And the man who owns a bottle-nose he owns a badge of merit; he

Takes Bardolph, and not Randolph, as a patron to revere.

Here's your health, my gallant Tippler, may you ne'er have cause to rue

That you blessed our common country as a source of revenue!