The Pewter Quart. A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE WRITTEN AND COMPOSED FOR THE JOLLI FICATION OF BIBBERS OF BEER, PORTER, ALE, STOUT, NAPPY, AND ALL OTHER CONFIGURATIONS OF MALT AND HOP.* Preface to the Reader, which serves also for Invocatiou. Gentle Reader! Poets there were, in ages back, Who sung the fame of the bonny Black Jack; Others tuned harmonious lays In the Leathern Bottle's praise; Shall not I then lift my quill, To hymn a measure brighter still? Maidens, who Helicon's hill resort, Aid me to chaunt of the Pewter Quart. Here, boy, take this handful of brass, Across to the Goose and Gridir❜n pass, Count the coin on the counter out, And bring me a quart of foaming stout; Put to nothing at all, in short, Ex- cept the na- tu - ral Pewter Quart. 2. As for the glass, though I love it well, Bubbles and froths inside the pot : Why should anything, brittle or frail, Fence ENGLAND's liquor, VALOROUS ALE! He was a man of taste and art, Who stowed it away in a Pewter Quart. *Blackwood for November, 1823, contained the "Pewter Quart.”—M. 3. In the bowels of ENGLAND'S ground, Its materials all are found, From its sides should flow again, What cheers the bowels of ENGLAND's men: Can the same be said, I ask, In favour of foreign flagon or flask? None can of them the good report, We can of our national Pewter Quart. 4. Pleasant it is their shine to see, Like stars in the waves of deep Galilee; Pleasant it is their chink to hear, When they rattle on table full charged with beer; Pleasant it is, when a row's on foot, That you may, when you wish to demolish a brute, Politely the man to good manners exhort, By softening his skull with a Pewter Quart. 5. As for the mallet-pate, pig-eye Chinese, 6. Silver and gold no doubt are fine, But on my table shall never shine; I hate all silly and vain expense, 7. Bakers and bowls, I am told, of wood, Devil may care! I never use Water in either my belly or shoes; And shall never be counted art or part In putting the same in a Pewter Quart. 8. Galvani one day, skinning a frog, To pamper his paunch with that pinch-gut prog, Which can make a stuck pig kick out in a fit. And he proves by this science with erudite art, 9. If Hock then loves the glass of green, And champagne in its swan-necked flask is seen; And twist off our dram in a wooden quaigh ; Everything has its habitat fit, Let Sir John Barleycorn keep his court, 10. So, boy, take this handful of brass, Across to the Goose and Gridiron pass, And bring me a quart of foaming stout; Cannikin, rumkin, flagon, or mug Into nothing at all, in short, HERE FOLLOWS A DISSERTATION ON THE LEATHER BOTTLE AND THE BLACK JACK. In the works of the ingenious D'Urfey, which he who studies not with nocturnal and diurnal attention, is worthy of infinite reprobation, not to say worse, will be discovered two poems, which have not, as yet, excited the notice of the learned in the manner which they deserve.* I shall therefore, as briefly as * Thomas D'Urfey, author of thirty-one comedies which have sunk into deserved forgetfulness, by reason of their licentiousness, and of six volumes of the importance of the matter will admit of, dissertate somewhat upon them; inviting the attention of the sage and erudite to my remarks; perfectly regardless of the approbation or disapprobation of those whom my friend, the Reverend Edward Irving, calls "the flush and flashy spirits of the age;" thereby making an agreeable and euphuistical alliteration at head and tail.* In the third volume of "Pills to Purge Melancholy," the two hundred and forty-seventh page, and first verse, will be found these words The Leather Bottle. Now God above, that made all things, I wish in Heaven that soul may dwell A more splendid exordium is not in the whole compass of our poetry. The bard, about to sing of a noble invention, takes high ground. His eyes, with a fine frenzy rolling, glances at the origin of the world, the glories of Heaven, and the utilities. of earth; at old ocean murmuring with its innumerable waves, and the stately vessels walking the waters in all their magnificence; and then, by a gradual and easy descent, like Socrates bringing philosophy from the abodes of the gods to the dwellings of men, chaunts the merits of him who, for the use and praise of man, devised the Leathern Bottle. Compare Pindar's celebrated opening with this, and you will see how short is the flight of the Boeotian muse, contrasted with that of our own swan. Observe, moreover, the solid British feeling of the illustrious songs and party lyrics, called "Laugh and be Fat; or, Pills to Purge Melancholy," was a boon companion of Charles II., and in high request among the wits and profligates of that monarch's court. He died, 1723. — M. * In his Orations, published in 1823, Irving had denounced "unhallowed poets, and undevout dealers in science, and intemperate advocates of policy, and all other pleaders before the public mind," as "the flush and flashy spirits of the age."- M. poet. No sooner does he mention ships, than the national spirit breaks forth. The ships upon the seas to swim, Had the man who wrote this, one idea inconsistent with the honour and glory of Britain?—I lay a thousand pounds he had not. Had he lived in our days, he would have consigned the economists to the devil and the Scotsman. Conceive, for a moment, this great man, big with beer, and thoroughly impressed with veneration for our walls of wood, reading that article in the Edinburgh on the Navigation Laws. What an upcurled lip of indignation would he not display! How hearty would be his guffaw of contempt! How frequent his pulls at the vessel inserted in his dexter paw, in order to wash down the cobweb theories he was endeavouring to swallow! How impatiently would the pigtail turn under the nether-gum, until at last, losing patience, he would fling the Balaam over the bannisters, and exclaim, “ Here, John, take it away from me, and put it in the only place where it can be at all for the use and praise of man.” What place that is, it is not necessary for me to mention. Now, what do you say to the canns of wood? Then straight the man begins to ban, And swears it, 'twas long of the wooden cau; Although he stumbled, all had been well; So safe therein it would remain, Until the man got up again. And I wish in heaven, &c. The ambling pace of the verse cannot be sufficiently commended. Here we go on jog trot, as Sancho Panza on Dapple. Nothing stops the full gush of poetry poured out in a ceaseless, murmuring flow, like a brook rolling at the feet of two lovers by moonlight. Remark, too, the insight this verse gives us of the manners of the poet. His habits are completely anti-domestic; VOL. I.-12 |