For a soul that is fagged in a case that is weary.
It beats all your juggling illusions a mile,
Whilst it clear overshadows the magic of Moses,
And it clothes the grey plains of existence awhile
With the sunshine of spring and an odour of roses.
A pint! I should guess—we’ll increase it to two—
I will ne’er be a bigot where beer is in question,
For if merely you take a sound practical view,
It enhances the health and improves the digestion.
It smoothes the deep lines from the forehead of care,