A CHAUNT.
BY A TEETOTALLER.
Hence away, loathed Melancholy!
Friends around again we see:
Banish care, and let's be jolly,
Eating muffins, drinking tea.
Round the social board we'll cluster,
(That which names from tea I mean),
And wash down the festive "buster"
With deep draughts of Black and Green.
What care we for Beer-kings' prices?
Or the bitters of the vat?
Adam's pale ale never rises,
There's no strychnine, boys, in that!
What to us the size of bottles?
Pint or quart, who cares a jot?
While we to tea confine our throttles,
Ours will always be a Pot.
(Only mind lest "Fine Young Hyson"
Be a synonyme for "sloe:"
And beware the aqueous poison
Which from filthy Thames doth flow.)
Jovial boys, come pass the Sally
Lunn, nor let the crumpet stand:
Round the jocund kettle rally,
And silence for its song demand.
Water from its dumpy level
Shall elevate each thirsty soul:
And if dull care approach our revel,
We'll drown it in the sugar bowl.
Thus we'll pass each festive season,
From all indigestion free:
And enjoy the feast of reason,
Coupled with the flow of tea.