Classic Poem

A plague of those musty old lubbers,
Who tell us to fast and to think,
And patient fail in with life's rubbers,
With nothing but water to drink.

A can of good stuff! had they twigg'd it,
'Twould have set them for pleasure agog,
And, spight of the rules
Of the schools,
The old fools
Would have all of 'em swigg'd it,
And swore there was nothing like grog.

II.

My father, when last I from Guinea
Return'd, with abundance of wealth,
Cry'd Jack, never be such a ninny
To drink: — said I — father your health.

So I shew'd him the stuff, and he twigg'd it,
And it set the old codger agog,
And he swigg'd, and mother,
And sister, and brother,
And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it,
And swore there was nothing like grog.

III.

Tother day as the chaplain was preaching,
Behind him I curiously slunk,
And while he our duty was teaching,
As how we should never get drunk,

I shew'd him the stuff, and he twigg'd it,
And it soon set his rev'rence agog,
And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd,
And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd,
And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it,
And swore there was nothing like grog.

IV.

Then trust me there's nothing like drinking,
So pleasant on this side the grave;
It keeps the unhappy from thinking,
And makes e'en more valiant the brave.

As for me, from the moment I twigg'd it,
The good stuff has so set me agog,
Sick or well, late or early,
Wind foully or fairly,
Helm a-lee or a weather,
For hours together,
I've constantly swigg'd it,
And, dam'me, there's nothing like grog.