A PROHIBITIONIST'S CANTICLE.
Let meaner souls make merry
O'er cups of ruby wine,
With claret, port or sherry
Their tunes incarnadine;
Let little boys emphatic
Become o'er ginger b.
Myself I grow ecstatic
About a drink called "Tea."
Tea elevates one's pecker,
Rejuvenates the mind,
Enriches the exchequer,
Yet never makes men "blind";
When footsore and effete I'm
From every ache set free,
And not alone at tea-time
I thank the Lord for "Tea."
It tells of balmy breezes
That blow "o'er Ceylon's isle"
(While HEBER mostly pleases
His accent here is vile)—
Of some far-flung plantation
Where Hindus bend the knee;
And would my occupation
Were prefixed (ah!) by "Tea"!
'Tis told in classic fable
The nectar served to Zeus
At his Olympic table
Was just a vinous juice;
That such is purely fiction
I heartily agree,
Having the sound conviction
'Twas nothing less than "Tea."