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BEERDRINKER'S SONG,

UNDER A PICTURE OF GAMBRINUS.

GAMBRÍNUS was a gallant king
Reigned once in Flanders old,
He was the man invented beer
As I've been often told.

Of mált and hops he brewed his beer
And made it strong and good,

And some of it he bottled up

And some he kept in wood.

The golden crown upon his head,
The beérjug in his hand,
Beerdrinkers, see before ye here

Your bénefactor stand.

Beerlóvers, paint him on your shields,
Upón your beérpots paint
"Twere well a pope did never worse
Than máke Gambrinus Saint.

And now fill every man his pot
Till the foam óverflows;

No higher praise ásks the good old king
Than fróth upon the nose.

Bacchus I'll honor while I live

And while I live love wine,

But still I'll hold th' old Flanders king
And beérjug more divine.

While I have wine night's darkest shades
To mé are full moonlight,

But keep my beérpot filled all day
And I'll sleep sound all night.

So blessings on th' old Flanders king,
And blessings on his beer,

And cúrse upon the táx on malt,

That makes good drink so dear.

Walking from SCHOPFHEIM to GERSBACH in the BLACK FOREST (Baden), Octob. 6, 1854.

ONCE it happened Í was walking
Ón a bright sunshiny mórning

Through the cornfields, gáy and happy,
Lilting to myself some nonsense;

Áll at once came á policeman,
Caught me fast by the shirt cóllar,
Drágged me to the village Séssions,
Ánd before their Wórships sét me: -

"Hére's the féllow stóle the apple,

Please your gráve and réverend Wórships;
Nów he 's in your hands do with him
Ás required by law and jústice."

"Nó, I did not; it's a foúl lie;
I'm no thiéf, stole néver ápple;
Lét me go, and thé false witness
Púnish as your Wórships think best."

"Nót so fást; it has been swórn to:
Your grandmóther stóle the ápple;
That's the same in law and justice
Ás if you yourself had stólen it.

"Só you
're séntenced to go always
With your coatsleeves inside oút turned,

Thát all seeing you may knów 'twas
Your grandmother stóle the apple.""

That's the reason, Génts and Ládies,

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go always in this fashion;

Thrów no bláme upón my tailor,

Thé fault 's áll my old grandmóther's.

SUMISWALD in Canton BERN, Octob. 2, 1854.

THE húman skull is of deceit

As fúll as any egg of meat;

Full of deceit 's the human skull
As ány egg of meat is full.

Some eggs are addled, some are sweet,
But évery egg 's chokefúl of meat;
Cléver some skúlls, some skulls are dull,
Bút of deceit each skull's chokeful.

Lét your egg áddled be or sweet,

To have your éggshell clean and neat
The first step is: scoop out the meat;
And cléver let it be or dull,

If

you would have an honest skull, Oút you must scrape to the last grain The vile, false, lýing, pérjured brain. VERONA, August 19, 1854.

I AM a versemaker by trade
And vérses of all kinds have made,
Bád ones to win me fame and pelf,
And good ones to amuse myself.
Of various humor grave and gay
I póetise the livelong day

And sometimes sit up half the night
Some flúent nonsense to indite

About an élephant or a fly,
Or Annabel's bewitching eye,

Aboút past, present, or to come,
Aboút America, Carthage, Rome,
Aboút high, lów, or great, or small,
Or maybe about nothing at all.
I wish you saw me when I write
Vérses for mine own delight;
I can't sit still, I jump about

Úp and down stairs, in and out;

My cheeks grow red, my eyes grow bright,
You'd swear I'd lost my senses quite.
But when I'm set a verse to spin
That shall be sure applause to win,
Lórd, but it is an altered case!
I wouldn't my foé see in my place;
In vain my locks I twirl and pull,
And bite my nails, and thúmp my skull,
My spírit 's ebbed, my wit 's at null;
Góds, but it's hard work to write dull!
Thrice-gifted Wordsworth

happy bard

To whom that task was never hard!

Teach me the árt intó my Muse
Not "géntle pity" to infuse,

Or fear or hópe or jealousy,

Or sweet love, or philosophy
And reáson strong and manly sense,
But páltry cunning, sleek pretence,
And how to give no vice offence,
That sits installed in station high
And mixes with good company;
In áll, sufficient skill to cook
Some fiddle faddle, pious book
On drawing-room table fit to lie
And catch the idle visitor's eye
And help the aúthor ón to fame

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