Читать книгу The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe - Various - Страница 43

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Oh! I have loved thee fondly, ever

Preferr'd thee to the choicest wine;

From thee my lips they could not sever

By saying thou contain'dst strychnine.

Did I believe the slander? Never!

I held thee still to be divine.

For me thy color hath a charm,

Although 'tis true they call thee Pale;

And be thou cold when I am warm,

As late I've been—so high the scale

Of FAHRENHEIT—and febrile harm

Allay, refrigerating Ale!

How sweet thou art!—yet bitter, too

And sparkling, like satiric fun;

But how much better thee to brew,

Than a conundrum or a pun,

It is, in every point of view,

Must be allow'd by every one.

Refresh my heart and cool my throat,

Light, airy child of malt and hops!

That dost not stuff, engross, and bloat

The skin, the sides, the chin, the chops,

And burst the buttons off the coat,

Like stout and porter—fattening slops!