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ORIGINAL POETRY.

for the port folio.

the water-drinker, an anti-anacreontic.

   Why aye, my boys,
   To drinking joys,
My aid shall ne'er be lacking;
   I freely lend
   My voice to send
Each sober-sides a packing.

   I'll ne'er object
   To pay respect
To boil'd, or fried, or roast, Sir;
   Nor when the glass
   Is bid to pass,
Refuse to give a toast, Sir.

   A flowing bowl
   Will cheer the soul,
And keep the bark from sinking;
   So here's the man,
   (Name him who can)
Who first invented drinking.

   Success to him
   That loves to swim,
In hock or old tokay, Sir;
   And leads the dance
   To Spain or France,
To soak his thirsty clay, Sir.

   Well may he fare,
   Who breathes a prayer,
As long as his own life, Sir;
   That heaven would put
   A Malmsey-but,
In place of child or wife, Sir.

   And here's the soul,
   That loves a bowl,
Of cyder, beer, or grog, Sir;
   And ale from cask,
   And gin from flask,
Would suck till dead as log, Sir.

   While laughter reigns,
   And tipsey brains,
Call for more corks to draw, Sir;
   I'll stand and drink,
   While I can wink,
A health to honest water.

   Let corks rebound,
   And glass go round,
While none to flinch are free, Sir;
   And here's the man.
   Who shoves the can,
Of water round to me, Sir.

   Let lips that list,
   By wine be kist,
That sparkles in the glass, Sir:
   But here's the lip,
   That stoops to sip,
What glistens in the grass, Sir.

   Now here's the day,
   Come when it may,
When walk around the world, Sir,
   And where you stop,
   There's not a drop
Of water to be found, Sir.

   Each river's urn,
   To tumbler turn,
And pour out nought but sack, Sir;
   Each God, his due
   To ocean brew,
And pay, in beer, his tax, Sir.

   Rain-drops! become
   Drops of good rum,
Or brandy-drops, in time, Sir:
   And every juice,
   For toper's use,
Be turn'd to juice of lime, Sir.

   Each nut become,
   A sugar-plum;
Each tree, of grapes, a bunch, Sir.
   And ocean grow,
   In an age or so,
One mighty bowl of punch, Sir.

   Each ship become,
   To dip up some,
A ladle all of gold, Sir:
   And earth itself,
   Be turn'd to shelf,
This bowl of punch to hold, Sir.

   But while the strange,
   Though glorious change,
Is distant many a year, Sir;
   While nature brews,
   No beer but dews,
And all her drops are dews, Sir.

   While art distils,
   The nectar rills,
From berry, seeds, and grass, Sir;
   And wine, his face
   Shews but in vase
Of chrystal, clay, or brass, Sir.

   What nature brings
   From streams and springs,
Is all that I demand, Sir;
   I ask no cup,
   To dip it up,
But my own hollow hand, Sir.

 An health to those
   Who steep their nose,
In whiskey, ale, or wine, Sir;
   A sty, and tub,
   And post to rub,
To those who would be swine, Sir.

   An health to such,
   Who drink too much,
Or nothing drink, who can, Sir;
   Gin, ale, and wine,
   For two-legg'd swine,
And water for a man, Sir.