I fhrink not at the fate of better men,
Nor the worse death by G---y's barbarous pen.
Beer gives firm courage to the generous mind,
Which meaner spirits in religion find.
Nor think this ftrange, fince doctrines, new, or old,
With beer or ale a just resemblance hold.
Stale cut-throat beer the papists most admire,
Like brandy burning with fulphureous fire,
Which kindles faggots: and of these they tell,
That those they burn on earth, are burn'd in hell.
Stale beer and ale the lutherans count good bub :-
"Tis ale,,'tis beer, 'tis both; for 'tis con-fub.
CALVINIAN liquor, brew'd in evil hour,
Is muddy, pale, fmall, bitter, flat and four.
Old fox's drink firft quiet, fmooth as mum,
If agitated foon ferments like ftum ;
Impatient of reftraint, when clofely pent,
Shakes the frail veffel, till it finds a vent.
Sometimes in bottle lodg'd, tranfparent, thin,
Calm it enjoys a while the light within:
But when the spirit moves, 'twill fome, 'twill spout,
'Till bottle's empty left, and all run out.
The belch that starts from oratory tub,
Brew'd in TUB-ALLEY, near the street of GRUB,
Tho' thin, not clear; tho' pert, yet wond'rous dull ;
With froth o'erflows, the veffel never full.
Small beer in bottle ftop'd, tho' very weak,
Will often force the cork, or bottle break.
Freedom once gain'd, it smiling upwards flies,
The afpiring lees ftill thick'ning as they rife.
Grateful at copious meals, it yields delight,
Quenching our thirst. and quick'ning appetite:
But fuddenly puff'd up, too late we find,
We nought but water drank, bewitch'd with wind.
The ftomach, hence oppreft with grievous load,
Will oft four belches in the face explode;
Or else infidious, filent ftench disclose,
Which fpares our ears, but doubly hurts the nose.
Such is the deift's tiff, free-thinking liquor:
Nothing at first feems clearer, brisker, quicker:
To air expos'd, the frothy fpirit fled,
It muddy grows, infipid, flat and dead.
And as their liquor and their tenets force
Is much the fame; almoft the fame's their fource:
As that the washing of exhausted grains;
The second running thefe of crazy brains.
True BRITISH doctrine, ftrong, and found, and clear,
Well-brew'd, well-hop'd, well-ag'd, like PARSON's beer,
Diffuses health and ftrength through every part,
Informs the head, and fortifies the heart.
And as this liquor, still unturn'd, defies
The fun's hot rays, and thunder of the skies:
So those, in whom that firm foundation's lay'd,
By bribes unwon, by threat'nings undifmay'd,
True to their notions, let them fink, or thrive,
Rather then trim, and turn, will burn alive.
The honeft YORKSHIRE vicar, ftrong, and hale,
Who fcorns all liquor, but his native ale,
Drinks this well pleas'd: come, bring us t'other pint,
He cries: There's no falfe BOWMAN doctrine in't.
Why fhould religious doctrines thus be rang'd,
To politics, fince all have long been chang'd?
-If so, we still are right: for what men think
We certainly may know, from what they drink.
Good, found, old, mellow beer the tories fwig:
More new, and bitter drinks the foberer whig;
Whofe vitiated palate more inclines
To the high flavoury taste of foreign wines.
Some love them mix'd: and hence as each prevail,
On court they panegyrics write, or rail.
Hence whigs extol hereditary right;
And foar than jacobites a loftier flight:
Hence week each GRUBSTREET garret rings]
With facred ministers as well as kings.
From hence proceed our fhort, exact diurnals,
And the long letters of our weekly journals:
Which through our heads from fumes of liquor flow,
While the grofs part defcends in strains below.
Both born like twins, almost together die,
The letter'd sheets fresh paper ftill supply,
Of brain and bum the labours difappear,
Sunk in the fafe retreat of books and beer.
Here ends their first gay life: but still secure
From everlasting death, when time mature
Has now prepar'd the well concocted mass;
To the large cask once more the liquors pass:
From boghouse gloom and cold through midnight shade
To the diftiller's light and heat convey'd.
There, when refin'd by purgatory fire
The fpirits volatile to heav'n afpire,
To wat❜ry forms condens'd against their will,
They drop like rain, and like the dew distil.
Then fhrin'd in glafs, like fouls well purg'd from fin,
They fhine refulgent in the fhape of gin.
This noble fpirit, rais'd by chymic fires,
With good warm fentiments each fex inspires:
Devotion kindles in the fairer kind;
And raifes courage in the manly mind.
Hence our the medicants in every street
With conftant pray'rs aud benedictions greet..
Hence reeling foldiers, tho' they cannot stand,
Drive all before them, and the wall command.
But oh ye nymphs and heroes, do not scatter
At random, as you pafs, your precious water:
- For, in proportion as this liquor's loft,
Gin will advance, and brandy more will cost.
But if in urn it decently be lay'd,
Whence to the vault it fafe may be convey'd ;
"Twill rife again and you'll enjoy the blifs:
Of drinking your own tranfmigrated` pifs.
Thus when the body dead remain'd untomb'd,
As heathens thought, the foul to wander doom'd,
Was ftill debarr'd from ent'ring CHARON's wherry :
Whilft others ftrait pafs'd o'er the STYGIAN ferry ;
Yet could not reach the pure ELYSIAM plains,
"Till purg'd by fire from all terrestrial stains.
But when the appointed tract of time explor'd,
In native purity they fhine reftor'd,
To earth ascend these sparks of heavenly flames,
To animate once more corporeal frames.
Grubftreet Journal, No 97.
ARODE for his MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY.
HEN CHARLES, from anarchy's retreat,
Refum'd the regal feat:
When (hence, by frantick zealots driv❜n)
Our holy church, our laws,
Returning with the royal caufe,
Rais'd up their thankful eyes to heav'n.
Then hand in hand,
To blefs the land,
Protection, with obedience came,
And mild oblivion wav'd revenge,
For wrongs of civil flame.
Wild, and wanton, then, our joys,
Loud, as raging war before:
All was triumph, tuneful noife,
None, from heav'n, could hope for more.
Brother, fon, and father foes,
Now embracing, blefs their home:
Who fo happy, could fuppofe
Happier days were still to come?
But providence, that better knows
Our wants, then we,
Previous to thofe,
(Which human wisdom could not, then, foresee)
Did, from the pregnant former day,
A race of happier reigns, to come, convey.
The fun, we faw precede,
Those mighty joys reftor'd,
Gave to our future need,
From great PLANTAGENET a lord.
From whofe high veins this greater day arose,
A fecond GEORGE, to fix our world's repose.
From CHARLES restor'd, short was our term of blifs,
But GEORGE from GEORGE entails our happiness.
From a heart, that abhors the abuse of high pow'r,
Are our liberties duly defended;
From a courage, inflam'd by the terrors of war,
With his fame is our commerce extended.
Let our publick high spirits be rais'd, to their height,
Yet our prince, in that virtue will lead 'em.
From our welfare, he knows, that his glory's more bright
As obedience enlarges our freedom.
What ties can bind a grateful people more,
Than fuch diffus'd benevolence of pow'r?
If private views could more prevail,
Than ardour, for the publick weal,
Then had his native, martial heat,
In arms feduc'd him to be great.
But godlike virtue, more inclin'd
To fave, than to destroy,
Deems it fuperior joy,
To lead in chains of peace, the mind.
With fong, ye BRITONS, lead the day!
Sing! fing the morn, that gave
Whofe virtues never fhall decay,
No, never, never taste of death.
When tombs and trophies fhall be dust,
Fame fhall preferve the great and just.
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