MEM.
'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer—
Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere.
QUOERE.
Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell?
Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well?
MEM.
To try it soon on our small beer—
'Twill save us several pound a year.
MEM.
To remember to forget to ask
Old Whitbread to my house one day
MEM.
Not to forget to take of beer the cask,
The brewer offered me, away.
Now having penciled his remarks so shrewd,
Sharp as the point indeed of a new pin,
His majesty his watch most sagely viewed,
And then put up his asses' skin.
To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say,
"Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay!"
"Yes, please your majesty," in humble notes,
The brewer answered—"also, sir, of oats:
Another thing my horses too maintains,
And that, an't please your majesty, are grains."
"Grains, grains," said majesty, "to fill their crops? Grains, grains?—that comes from hops—yes, hops, hops? hops?"
Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at fault—
"Sire," cried the humble brewer, "give me leave
Your sacred majesty to undeceive;
Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt."
"True," said the cautious monarch, with a smile:
"From malt, malt, malt—I meant malt all the while."
"Yes," with the sweetest bow, rejoined the brewer,
"An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure."
"Yes," answered majesty, with quick reply,
"I did, I did, I did I, I, I, I."