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Your Gaul may tipple his thin, thin wine, And pate of its hue and its fragrance fine,
Shall never a drop pass throat of mine again. His claret is meagre, but let trnt pass ; I can't say much for his hypocrass, And never more will I fill my glass
With cold champaign, His claret is meagre (but let that pass), And never more will I fill my glass With cold, with cold champaign,
With cold champaign, For, oh, I prefer a flagon of ale, ha ! ha ! Stout and old, ha ! ha ! and as amber pale, ha ! ha ! Which heart and head will alike assail. Ale, ale be mine Ale, ale, fine old English ale, ale, ale, Fine old English ale be mine.
BEER
By C. S. Calverley (i831-1884)
In those old days which poets say were golden— (Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves :
And if they did, I'm all the more beholden To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves,
Who talk to me " in language quaint and olden " Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves,
Pan with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards,
And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)
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