544 A Malt-ese Melody. [[Nov. 



Ten thousand, let loose from their lairs, 



Stagger forth to effect our undoing ; 

 And the press, predetermined to treat us as bears, 



Now issues a Treatise on Brewing. 

 The poets all bless the new law, 



And swallow their purl as they wink ; 

 While artists, who usually drink when they draw, 



May now go and draw what they drink. 



Yet each Blue should indignantly mark 



All those who this measure have planned ; 

 For, strange though the issue must seem, the bright barque 



Of Landon may soon strike on land ; 

 Hannah More, growing less, may be passed ; 



While an earthquake may ruin our Hall ; 

 Even Bowles, while at play, may meet rubbers at last, 



Since Porter has had such a fall ! 



The world may well laugh when it wins, 



And its mirth is the knell of our crimes ; 

 Like the rest of the outs, we look up to the inns, 



For their signs are as signs of the times. 

 Who can say where calamity stops ? 



Where hope puts an end to our cares ? 

 Alas ! we seem destined to carry our hops 



Where the kangaroos thrive upon theirs. 



How sweet wert thou, sweetwort ! until 



The tempest came growling so near ; 

 Till ruthless Economy came with its bill, 



Like a vulture, and steeped it in beer. 

 Reduction's among the court-beauties, 



Just now ; and there might be a plan, 

 As the Don and his Sancho are taking off duties, 



To take the Whole Duty off Man. 

 i, ' 



The nation seems caught in the net 



Where the foes of Mendicity lurk, 

 And fearing abuse, is determined to set 



The beer, like the beggars to work. 

 It at least will supply us with cuts 



To the Tale of a Tub we must learn ; 

 So that having long prospered and flourished on butts, 



We have now become butts in our turn. 



From eagles we sink into bats, 



And flit round a desolate home ; 

 While those of each firm who can roam from their vats, 



May visit thy Vatican, Rome ! 

 And there, growing classic, we'll move 



Great Bacchus to back us alone ; 

 Who, hating mean malt, may yet kindly approve 



This whine while he's drinking his own. 



Yet this we must all of us feel, 



And while we admit it we weep. 

 The profession is far less select and genteel 



Since beer became vulgar and cheap. 

 But " I'm ill at these numbers" they're o'er ! 



Both pathos and bathos have fled ; 

 The world, were I dead, would not want a Whit-more, 



For it knows that I'm not a Whit-bread ! B. 



