In England I, and you in Germany.
Father Prout, in his polyglot praise of rum punch, says:—
Doth love, young chiel, one’s bosom ruffle?
Would any feel ripe for a scuffle?
The simplest plan is just to take a
Well stiffened can of old Jamaica.
We parted by the gate in June,
That soft and balmy month,
Beneath the sweetly beaming moon,
And (wonth—hunth—sunth—bunth—I can’t find a rhyme to month).