Well, as you’re so pressing, don’t mind if I do—
What, a pint? Yes, a pint! I should smile at your query—
There’s a wonderful balm in the cream of a brew
For a soul that is fagged in a case that is weary.
It beats all your juggling illusions a mile,
Whilst it clear overshadows the magic of Moses,
And it clothes the grey plains of existence awhile
With the sunshine of spring and an odour of roses.
A pint! I should guess—we’ll increase it to two—
I will ne’er be a bigot where beer is in question,
For if merely you take a sound practical view,
It enhances the health and improves the digestion.
It smoothes the deep lines from the forehead of care,
Till your enemy looms in the light of a brother,
And there’s peace—that strange peace that is lisped in the prayer
Of the sleepy-eyed brat at the knee of his mother.
The old world chips in, in the guise of a friend,
As the solvent of hops humanises and mellows,
And the limits of brotherhood stretch and extend
Till the Devil himself seems the best of good fellows.
Then bring me a glass, or a tankard, or tank—
And the last, if permitted a voice in the choosing:
For, in all the crimes’ calendar, none is so rank
As the sin, the nigh obsolete sin, of refusing.
[Decoration: Gold mining camp]