In haste my visionary guest retir’d, And left me deep in contemplation drown’d Resolving reason never more to quench In floods Lethean of deceitful wine; Deceitful wine! embrew’d with mixtures dire, By the curs’d vintner’s art for sordid pelf. O! grant me, Heav’n, to live with health and ease, My books, a sober friend, Small Beer, and sense: So shall my years the smiling fates prolong, And each auspicious morn shall see me happy.
Even in distant times particular localities became noted for the excellence of their brewers. London early attained, and has maintained until the present day, a great reputation for its ale. Chaucer alludes to the taste of the Cook for a “draught of London ale.” Tyrwhitt says that in 1504 London ale was of such excellence that it fetched 5s. a barrel more than Kentish ale. This can hardly be, as we have already seen that at that period the barrel of London double ale only fetched 4s. Probably Tyrwhitt intended to refer to a tun and not to a barrel. The occasion referred to was the enthronement of William Wareham as Archbishop of Canterbury, when the provision made for washing down the vast stores of eatables was something tremendous. Besides great quantities of wine of many sorts, there were four tuns of London ale, six of Kentish, and twenty of English beer.
The malt liquors of London, and especially London porter and stout, are known from pole to pole, and Burton ales have a no less world-wide reputation. Indeed, the word Burton has in itself come to be synonymous with ale, and the expression “a glass of Burton” has become a household word. {161}
Burton and its famous brew are treated of elsewhere in these pages, and it must suffice here to insert an old song in praise of this nineteenth century nectar:—
BURTON ALE.
Ne’er tell me of liquors from Spain or from France, They may get in your heels and inspire you to dance, But the Ale of Old Burton if mellow and right Will get in your head and inspire you to fight.
Your Claret and Rhenish and fine Calcavella Were never yet able to make a good fellow, But of stout Burton Ale, if you drink but enough, ’Twill make you all jolly and hearty and tough.
Then let meagre Frenchmen still batten on Wine, They ne’er will digest a good English Sirloin, Parbleu they may caper and Vapour along, But right Burton can make us both valiant and strong.
Come here then ye Mortals who’re prone to despair From frowns of Dame Fortune or frowns of the fair, Whate’er your disorder, three nips will prevail, And the best Panacea you’ll find, Burton Ale.
Then Molly approach with your Peacock and Cann— Not Juno herself brought more blessings to Man— With nip after nip, all my sorrows beguile, And my Fortune and Mistress shall presently smile.