But chief when to the cheerful glass, From vessel pure, thy streamlets pass, Then most thy charms prevail; Then, then, I’ll bet and take the odds That nectar, drink of Heathen Gods, Was poor compared to Ale.
Give me a bumper: fill it up: See how it sparkles in the cup; O how shall I regale ! Can any taste this drink divine, And then compare rum, brandy, wine, Or aught with nappy Ale?
Inspired by thee, the warrior fights, The lover wooes, the poet writes And pens the pleasing tale; And still in Britain’s isle confest, Nought animates the patriot’s breast Like generous nappy Ale.
High church and low oft raise a strife And oft endanger limb and life, Each studious to prevail: Yet Whig and Tory, opposite In all things else, do both unite In praise of nappy Ale.
Inspired by thee, shall Crispin sing Or talk of freedom, church and king, And balance Europe’s scale: {440} While his rich landlord lays out schemes Of wealth in golden South-Sea dreams, The effects of nappy Ale.
Ev’n while these stanzas I indite, The bar-bells’ grateful sounds invite Where joy can never fail. Adieu, my Muse ! adieu, I haste To gratify my longing taste With copious draughts of Ale.
