Classic Poem

Ale! Theme inspiring Mirth, and tuneful Song,
O, be like thee my Lay! clear, smooth, and strong.
Whether alone, from soft Melasses boil'd,
Or brew'd with Hop, by Sots plain Porter stil'd.
Or in coarse Bottle , or Decanter clean,
Wrought Plate , or homely Jack , or Pewter mean,
Howe'er convey'd, to thy Renown I bring
This labour'd Verse; aid thou the Muse to sing.

Chief at the Harvest Home , or Christmass Chear,
Or Whitson Wake, thy circling Cups appear.
Fav'rite of Gossips at the Groaning Treat,
Where the full Brimmer tells there's no Deceit;
To Vestry Officers in Liv'ry drest
How pleasing, roaming on th' ungrateful Quest!
Nor to th' expecting Mob, on signal Days
Less welcome, shouting round the Bonefire's Blaze!
In wint'ry Ale-house, fam'd for Smoak and Noise,
Thy Tankard crowns the toil'd Mechanick's Joys;
And at Elections, 'mid each Party Tribe,
Proves for the casting Vote the safest Bribe .

In happier Times, ere Tea's debauching Mode
Did the brown Bowl, and Nutmeg-Toast explode,
Ere the fine Tasts were taught the squeamish Belle ,
Ale, nappy Breakfast, pleas'd her Choice as well.
Then rosy Tinctures, then a lively Air
(Not, as now wan, now languid) grac'd the Fair.
Then the spic'd Hot-pot, rich with sprightly Nantz ,
Cou'd treat, in lieu of Bourdeaux , spruce Gallants.
But good old Customs long depos'd we see,
The dear dear Vogue is alamode Paree .

Desist, just Satire , trace thy milder Theme,
Nor sadden Humour with the Glooms of Phlegm
Be in thy Verse Ale 's numerous Species shown,
From the same Grain by various Titles known:
Bright Amber priz'd by the luxurious Town,
The pale-hu'd Dorchester , the Stout Nut-brown;
Beer differenc'd with the Butt 's distinguish'd Name
And Purl , Supporter of the long-liv'd Dame.

In the Grape's Praise Anacreon 's Numbers shine,
And gentler Flaccus sung the Charms of Wine.
The Apple's Fame sweet Philips ' Lays impart,
And, Barley , thou shalt claim my humbler Art.
How blest — cou'd in return thy Bard regale,
Peculiar Wish! with Oxford 's fav'rite Ale;
Quaff by old Ifis' Banks in Sylvan Scenes,
Or with Good Fellows wind the Horn at Queen's !

Delicious Viand, Boon of Ceres ' Hand,
To Britain given, thy native, happy Land,
How wou'd thy Traffic spread, thy Credit rise,
O! — hadst thou but more Malt — and less Excise !