Abracadabra, that fearful word, And the two which, I said, I have never yet heard, Are utter'd.—'Tis done! Peter, full of his fun, Cries, "Broomstick! you lubberly son of a gun! Bring ale!—bring a flagon—a hogshead—a tun! 'Tis the same thing to you; I have nothing to do; And, 'fore George, I'll sit here, and I'll drink till all's blue!"
No doubt you've remark'd how uncommonly quick A Newfoundland puppy runs after a stick, Brings it back to his master, and gives it him—Well, So potent the spell, The Broomstick perceived it was vain to rebel, So ran off like that puppy;—some cellar was near, For in less than ten seconds 'twas back with the beer! Peter seizes the flagon; but ere he can suck Its contents, or enjoy what he thinks his good luck, The Broomstick comes in with a tub in a truck; Continues to run At the rate it begun, And, au pied de lettre, next brings in a tun! A fresh one succeeds, then a third, then another, Discomfiting much the astounded Lay-brother; Who, had he possess'd fifty pitchers or stoups, They all had been too few; for, arranging in groups The barrels, the Broomstick next started the hoops; The ale deluged the floor, But, still, through the door, Said Broomstick kept bolting, and bringing in more. 'en Macbeth to Macduff Would have cried "Hold! enough!" If half as well drench'd with such "perilous stuff," And, Peter, who did not expect such a rough visit, Cried lustily, "Stop!—That will do, Broomstick!—Sufficit!"
But ah, well-a-day! The Devil, they say, 'Tis easier at all times to raise than to lay. Again and again Peter roar'd out in vain His Abracadabra, and t'other words twain:— As well might one try A pack in full cry To check, and call off from their headlong career, By bawling out, "Yoicks!" with one's hand at one's ear. The longer he roar'd, and the louder and quicker, The faster the Broomstick was bringing in liquor.
The poor Lay-brother knew Not on earth what to do— He caught hold of the Broomstick and snapt it in two.— Worse and worse!—Like a dart Each part made a start, And he found he'd been adding more fuel to fire, For both now came loaded with Meux's entire; Combe's, Delafield's, Hanbury's, Truman's—no stopping— Goding's, Charenton's, Whitbread's continued to drop in, With Hodson's pale ale, from the Sun Brewhouse, Wapping. The firms differ'd then, but I can't put a tax on My memory to say what their names were in Saxon. To be sure the best beer Of all did not appear; For I've said 'twas in June, and so late in the year The "Trinity Audit Ale" is not come-at-able, —As I've found to my great grief when dining at that table.
Now extremely alarm'd, Peter scream'd without ceasing, For a flood of brown-stout he was up to his knees in, Which, thanks to the Broomstick, continued increasing; He fear'd he'd be drown'd, And he yell'd till the sound Of his voice, wing'd by terror, at last reach'd the ear Of St. Dunstan himself, who had finish'd his beer, And had put off his mitre, dalmatic, and shoes, And was just stepping into his bed for a snooze.
His Holiness paused when he heard such a clatter; He could not conceive what on earth was the matter. Slipping on a few things, for the sake of decorum, He issued forthwith from his Sanctum sanctorum. And calling a few of the Lay-brothers near him, Who were not yet in bed, and who happen'd to hear him, At once led the way, Without further delay, To the tower where he'd been in the course of the day. Poor Peter!—alas!—though St. Dunstan was quick, There were two there before him—Grim Death, and Old Nick!— When they open'd the door out the malt-liquor flow'd, Just as when the great Vat burst in Tot'n'am Court Road; The Lay-brothers nearest were up to their necks In an instant, and swimming in strong double X; While Peter, who, spite of himself now had drank hard, After floating awhile, like a toast in a tankard, To the bottom had sunk, And was spied by a monk, Stone-dead, like poor Clarence, half drown'd and half drunk.
In vain did St. Dunstan exclaim, "Vade retro Strongbeerum!—discede a Lay-fratre Petro!"— Queer Latin, you'll say, That præfix of "Lay," And Strongbeerum!—I own they'd have call'd me a blockhead if At school I had ventured to use such a Vocative; 'Tis a barbarous word, and to me it's a query If you'll find it in Patrick, Morell, or Moreri; But, the fact is, the Saint was uncommonly flurried, And apt to be loose in his Latin when hurried; The Brown-stout, however, obeys to the letter, Quite as well as if talk'd to, in Latin much better, By a grave Cambridge Johnian, Or graver Oxonian, Whose language, we all know, is quite Ciceronian. It retires from the corpse, which is left high and dry; But, in vain do they snuff and hot towels apply, And other means used by the faculty try. When once a man's dead There's no more to be said; Peter's "Beer with an e" was his "Bier with an i!!"
Moral.
By way of a moral, permit me to pop in The following maxims:—Beware of eaves-dropping!— Don't make use of language that isn't well scann'd!— Don't meddle with matters you don't understand!— Above all, what I'd wish to impress on both sexes Is,—Keep clear of Broomsticks, Old Nick, and three XXXs.
L'Envoye.