WHEN the chill Charokoe blows And winter tells a heavy tale, When pies and daws, and rooks and crows Sit cursing of the frosts and snows: Then give me ale! Ale in Saxon rumkin then, Such as will make grimalkin prate, Bids valour burgeon in tall men Quickens the poet's wit and pen: Then give me ale! Ale that absent battle fights, And forms the march of Swedish drum, Disputes with princes, laws and rights; What's done and past tells mortal wights— And what's to come. Ale that the ploughman's heart upkeeps, And equals it to tyrant's thrones, That wipes the eye that overweeps, And lulls in sweet and dainty sleeps The o'erwearied bones. Grandchild of Ceres! Bacchus' daughter, Wine's emulous neighbour, if but stale, Ennobling all the nymphs of water, And filling each man's heart with laughter: O give me ale! |