But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And showers began to fall: John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong; His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim: They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor, To work him further woe: And still, as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame The marrow of his bones; But a miller used him worst of all-- He crush'd him 'tween two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round, And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of n.o.ble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy: 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Though the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a gla.s.s in hand; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

_Robert Burns._

STANZAS TO PALE ALE

Oh! I have loved thee fondly, ever Preferr'd thee to the choicest wine; From thee my lips they could not sever By saying thou contain'dst strychnine.

Did I believe the slander? Never!

I held thee still to be divine.

For me thy color hath a charm, Although 'tis true they call thee Pale; And be thou cold when I am warm, As late I've been--so high the scale Of |Fahrenheit|--and febrile harm Allay, refrigerating Ale!

How sweet thou art!--yet bitter, too And sparkling, like satiric fun; But how much better thee to brew, Than a conundrum or a pun, It is, in every point of view, Must be allow'd by every one.

Refresh my heart and cool my throat, Light, airy child of malt and hops!

That dost not stuff, engross, and bloat The skin, the sides, the chin, the chops, And burst the b.u.t.tons off the coat, Like stout and porter--fattening slops!

_Unknown._

ODE TO TOBACCO

Thou who, when fears attack, Bidst them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest; Sweet, when the morn is gray; Sweet, when they've cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told, Not to thy credit; How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost-- Useless, except to roast-- Doctors have said it:

How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks!

Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbors; Jones--(who, I'm glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J.)-- Daily absorbs a clay After his labors.

Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken?

We're not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar!

Jones, the tobacco-jar!

Here's to thee, Bacon!

_Charles Stuart Calverley._

SONNET TO A CLAM

DUM TACENT CLAIMANT

Inglorious friend! most confident I am Thy life is one of very little ease; Albeit men mock thee with their similes And prate of being "happy as a clam!"

What though thy sh.e.l.l protects thy fragile head From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?

Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee, While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed, And bear thee off--as foemen take their spoil-- Far from thy friends and family to roam; Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home, To meet destruction in a foreign broil!

Though thou art tender yet thy humble bard Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!

_John G. Saxe._

TO A FLY

TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL Of PUNCH

Ah! poor intoxicated little knave, Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave; Why not content the cakes alone to munch?

Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl; Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul-- Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.

Now let me take thee out, and moralize-- Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies, Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup: Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand, The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand, But in goes every nose--they must, will sup.

Mad are the pa.s.sions, as a colt untamed!

When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild.

They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed, Insisting on their own sole will so wild.