THE RUSSIANS IN MADRAS.
McDowell, McDowell,
Beware of the day
When the Russians come sailing
Through Bengal Bay;
When they land at Madras
In countless shoals,
Cossacks, Siberians,
Laplanders, Poles!
Beware for they come
As thirsty as bold,
To a very hot climate,
From regions of cold,
And as soon as they land
To ransack this town,
They will rush, O! McDowell,
To thy Godown!
Oh who would not weep
For thee O Madras!
They'll swig every quart
Of "Daukes' bottled Bass:"
McDowell, slap into
Your godowns, pell mell,
They'll burst, and get tight on
Your "Sparkling Moselle."
Your "Light Wines," and "Rhine Wines"
They'll certainly drain,
Your "Burgundy," "Hock,"
"Greek Wines," and "Champagne."
"Hockeimer," thy blood
In torrents shall flow,
With that choicest of Burgundies,—
"Clos Vougeot."
Lucid "White Hymet,"
Crystally clear,
On the lips of Laplanders
Shall shed many a tear.
Down the throats of Siberians
Shall freely be pour'd,
"Suisse Extract d'Absinthe,"
And th' "Old Tom" of "Swaine Board."
Whilst the Cossacks of Don
Their paunches shall fill
With "Creme de Noyeau"
And "Creme de Vanille."
McDowell, McDowell,
Tell me I pray.
Think you, could Russians
Resist your "Tokai?"
Think you their palates
Could ever refuse
Your mellow "Oporto"
Your "Grande Chartreuse?"
"Steinwine, in Box butel"
"Blue labell'd Schloss,"
With "Chateau Pexoto,"
They'll certainly toss.
Alas, oh, alas,
What then will become
Of your "Munro's best Cooper,"
And "Syrup of Gum?"
Where then will your "Chablis,"
And "Palatine" go,—
With your "Muscat," your "Cider,"—
McDowell and Co.?
Oh ghost of Exshaw,
What bottles they'll burst,
Of your "No. 1 Brandy,"—
Of brandies the first!
With Gledstane's best vintage
They'll make them right merry,—
His "oldest choice Cognac,"
His "pale yellow Sherry."
But what shall we do
That this may not be,
When the thirsty barbarians
Come over the sea?—
Let us forestal the Russians!
At once let us go—
And buy the whole stock of
MCDOWELL & CO.