In the market-place or forum,
If you’re dull, my cockalorum,
Never heed the censor morum,
But just brew yourself a jorum,
In a beaker or a cup,
Of this stimulating liquor,
Which, when life begins to flicker,
And your soul grows slowly sicker,
And you feel a bucket-kicker,
Is a patent pick-me-up.
It was near the Yorkshire Stingo
That in modern London lingo,
With a face like a flamingo,
Said a friend of mine, “By Jingo!
What a wretched wreck you are!”
I replied, “I’m melancholic,
And my pains are diabolic.
I, who once was frisk and frolic,
Now am glum and vitriolic—
Every nerve is on the jar!”
Then a smile that was sardonic
Beamed about his brow Byronic,
And he said, “This is masonic,
But I think you want a tonic—
Try the famous (something) wine.”
And he further said with unction
That I need have no compunction
In obeying his injunction,
’Twould renew each vital function,
And just suit a case like mine.
I have drunk and I’m a giant
Quite refreshed and grown defiant;
All my limbs are free and pliant,
And now neither May nor Bryant
Can supply a match to me.
Now my pen again grows graphic,
And my verse is strictly sapphic,
And my tricycle in traffic
I can ride with smile seraphic,
From all nervous tremors free.
I can laugh at Punch and Judy,
And enjoy a book from Mudie;
I am spick and span and dudey,
And I freely spend my scudi,
And I feel that I could fly.
I’ve a bearing that is regal,
All my acts are strictly legal,
And I’ll wager that an eagle,
Though he’d taken Mother Seigel,
Couldn’t show as clear an eye.
So in market-place or forum,
If you’re dull, my cockalorum,
Never heed the censor morum,
But just brew yourself a jorum,
In a beaker or a cup,
Of this stimulating liquor,
Which, when life begins to flicker,
And your soul grows slowly sicker,
And you feel a bucket-kicker,
Is a patent pick-me-up.