liquor. I need only think of Mr. Masefield, who has put these manly words in the mouth of his pirate mate:
Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French, And some'll swallow tea and stuff fit only for a wench, But I'm for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench!
Oh some are fond of fiddles and a song well sung, And some are all for music for to lilt upon the tongue; But mouths were made for tankards, and for sucking at the bung!"
This apparently artless oratory was beginning to have its effect. Loud huzzas filled the hall. These touching words had evoked wistful memories hidden deep in every heart. Old wounds were reopened and bled afresh.
Again Quimbleton had to call for silence.
"I will recite to you," he said, "a ditty that I have composed myself. It is called A Chanty of Departed Spirits."
In a voice tremulous with emotion he began:
The earth is grown puny and pallid, The earth is grown gouty and gray, For whiskey no longer is valid And wine has been voted away— As for beer, we no longer will swill it In riotous rollicking spree; The little hot dogs in the skillet Will have to be sluiced down with tea.
O ales that were creamy like lather! O beers that were foamy like suds! O fizz that I loved like a father! O fie on the drinks that are duds! I sat by the doors that were slatted And the stuff had a surf like the sea— No vintage was anywhere vatted Too strong for ventripotent me!
I wallowed in waves that were tidal, But yet I was never unmoored; And after the twentieth seidel My syllables still were assured. I never was forced to cut cable And drift upon perilous shores, To get home I was perfectly able, Erect, or at least on all fours.
Although I was often some swiller, I never was fuddled or blowsed; My hand was still firm on the tiller, No matter how deep I caroused; But now they have put an embargo On jazz-juice that tingles the spine,
We can't even cozen a cargo Of harmless old gooseberry wine!
But no legislation can daunt us: The drinks that we
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