Consider, I beseech, the contrariety
Of cutting off our brandy, gin, and rum,
And then, by tracts, inviting us to come
And “mix in your society!”
In giving rules to dine, or sup, or lunch,
Consider Nature’s ends before you league us
To strip the Isle of Rum of all its punch—
To dock the Isle of Mull of all its negus—
Or doom—to suit your milk and water view—
The Isle of Skye to nothing but sky-blue!
Consider—for appearance’ sake—consider
The sorry figure of a spirit-ridder,
Going on this crusade against the suttler;
A sort of Hudibras—without a Butler!
Consider—ere you break the ardent spirits
Of father, mother, brother, sister, daughter;
What are your beverage’s washy merits?
Gin may be low—but I have known low-water!
Consider well, before you thus deliver,
With such authority, your sloppy cannon;
Should British tars taste nothing but the river,
Because the Chesapeake once fought the Shannon!
Consider, too—before all Eau-de-vie,
Schiedam, or other drinkers, you rebut—
To bite a bitten dog all curs agree;
But who would cut a man because he’s cut?
Consider—ere you bid the poor to fill
Their murmuring stomach with the “murmuring rill”—
Consider that their streams are not like ours,
Reflecting heaven, and margined by sweet flowers;
On their dark pools by day no sun reclines,
By night no Jupiter, no Venus shines;
Consider life’s sour taste, that bids them mix
Their rum with Acheron, or Gin with Styx;
If you must pour out water to the poor, oh!
Let it be aqua d’ oro!
Consider—ere as furious as a griffin,
Against a glass of grog you make such work,
A man may like a stiff’un,
And yet not be a Burke!
Consider, too, before you bid all skinkers
Turn water-drinkers,
What sort of fluid fills their native rivers;
Their Mudiboos, and Niles, and Guadalquivirs.
How should you like, yourself, in glass or mug,
The Bog—the Bug—
The Maine—the Weser—or that freezer, Neva?
Nay, take the very rill of classic ground—
Lord Byron found
Even Castaly better for Geneva.
Consider—if, to vote Reform’s arrears,
His Majesty should please to make you peers,
Your titles would be very far from trumps,
To figure in a book of blue and red:—
The Duke of Draw-well—what a name to dread!
Marquis of Main-pipe! Earl New-River-Head!
And Temperance’s chief, the Prince of Pumps!