“A can of good grog, had they swigg’d it,
T’would have set them for pleasure agog,
And in spite of the rules
Of the schools,
The old fools
Would have all of them swigg’d it,
And swore there was nothing like grog.”
“I’m exactly of your opinion, father,” said Tom, holding out his empty pannikin.
“Always ready for two things, Master Tom—grog and mischief; but, however, you shall have one more dose.”
“It hath, then, medicinal virtues?” inquired the Dominie.
“Ay, that it has, master—more than all the quacking medicines in the world. It cures grief and melancholy, and prevents spirits from getting low.”
“I doubt that, father,” cried Tom, holding up the bottle “for the more grog we drink, the more the spirits become low.”
Cluck, cluck, came from the thorax of the Dominie. “Verily, friend Tom, it appeareth, among other virtues, to sharpen the wits. Proceed, friend Dux, in the medicinal virtues of grog.”
“Well, master, it cures love when it’s not returned, and adds to it when it is. I’ve heard say it will cure jealousy; but that I’ve my doubts of. Now I think on it, I will tell you a yarn about a jealous match between a couple of fools. Jacob, aren’t your pannikin empty, my boy?”
“Yes,” replied I, handing it up to be filled. It was empty, for, not being very fond of it myself, Tom, with my permission, had drunk it as well as his own.
“There, Jacob, is a good dose for you; you aren’t always craving after it, like Tom.”