I care not a fig for a flagon of flip, Or a whistling can of rumbo; But my tongue through whiskey-punch will slip As nimble as Hurlothrumbo. So put the spirits on the board, And give the lemons a squeezer, And we'll mix a jorum, by the Lord! That will make your worship sneeze, sir. The French, no doubt, are famous souls, I love them for their brandy; In rum and sweet tobacco-rolls Jamaica men are handy. The big-breeched Dutch in juniper gin, I own, are very knowing; But are rum, gin, brandy worth a pin Compared with Inishowen? Though here with a lord 'tis folly and fine To tumble down Lachryma Christi, And over a skin of Italy's wine To get a little misty; Yet not the blood of the Bordeaux grape, The finest grape-juice going, Nor clammy Constantia, the pride of the Cape, Prefer I to Inishowen. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOUSES OF DREAMS by SARA TEASDALE THERE IS NO NATURAL RELIGION (B) by WILLIAM BLAKE EPILOGUE TO DRAMATIS PERSONAE by ROBERT BROWNING A MORE ANCIENT MARINER by BLISS CARMAN INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |