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 | American poems, selected and original |  |
EULOGIUM ON RUM.
BY J. SMITH.
Arise! ye pimpled, tipling race, arise!
From ev'ry town and village tavern, come!
Shew your red noses, and o'erflowing eyes
And help your poet chant the praise of Rum.
The cordial drop, the morning dram, I sing,
The mid-day toddy, and the evening sling.
From ev'ry town and village tavern, come!
Shew your red noses, and o'erflowing eyes
And help your poet chant the praise of Rum.
The cordial drop, the morning dram, I sing,
The mid-day toddy, and the evening sling.
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Hail, mighty Rum! and by this general name
I call each species—whisky, gin, or brandy:
(The kinds are various—but the effects the same;
And so I choose a name that's short and handy;
For, reader, know, it takes a deal of time,
To make a crooked word lie smooth in rhyme.)
I call each species—whisky, gin, or brandy:
(The kinds are various—but the effects the same;
And so I choose a name that's short and handy;
For, reader, know, it takes a deal of time,
To make a crooked word lie smooth in rhyme.)
Hail, mighty Rum! thy song inspiring merit
Is known to many a bard in these our days:
Apollo's drink, they find, is void of spirit—
Mere chicken-broth—insipid as their lays:
And, pleas'd, they'd give a riv'let—aye a sea
Of tuneful water, for one quart of thee!
Is known to many a bard in these our days:
Apollo's drink, they find, is void of spirit—
Mere chicken-broth—insipid as their lays:
And, pleas'd, they'd give a riv'let—aye a sea
Of tuneful water, for one quart of thee!
Hail, mighty Rum! how wond'rous is thy pow'r!
Unwarm'd by thee, how would our spirits sail,
When dark December comes, with aspect sour,
And, sharp as razor, blows the northern gale!
And yet thour't grateful in that sultry day,
When raging Sirius darts his fervid ray.
Unwarm'd by thee, how would our spirits sail,
When dark December comes, with aspect sour,
And, sharp as razor, blows the northern gale!
And yet thour't grateful in that sultry day,
When raging Sirius darts his fervid ray.
Hail, mighty Rum! to thee the wretched fly:
And find a sweet oblivion of their woes;
Lock'd in thy arms, as in the grave, they lie—
Forget their kindred—and forgive their foes.
And Lethe's stream, (so much extoll'd by some,
In ancient times) I shrewdly guess, was Rum.
And find a sweet oblivion of their woes;
Lock'd in thy arms, as in the grave, they lie—
Forget their kindred—and forgive their foes.
And Lethe's stream, (so much extoll'd by some,
In ancient times) I shrewdly guess, was Rum.
Hail, mighty Rum! what can thy pow'r withstand!
E'en lordly Reason flies thy dreadful face:
And Health, and Joy, and all the lovely band
Of social Virtues, shun thy dwelling place:
(For in whatever breast it rears its throne,
Like Turkish monarchs, Rum must rule alone.)
E'en lordly Reason flies thy dreadful face:
And Health, and Joy, and all the lovely band
Of social Virtues, shun thy dwelling place:
(For in whatever breast it rears its throne,
Like Turkish monarchs, Rum must rule alone.)
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When our bold fathers cross'd the Atlantic wave,
And here arriv'd—a weak defenceless band—
Pray, what became of all the tribes so brave—
The savage owners of this happy land?
Were they sent headlong to the realms below,
“By doom of battle?” friend, I answer no.
And here arriv'd—a weak defenceless band—
Pray, what became of all the tribes so brave—
The savage owners of this happy land?
Were they sent headlong to the realms below,
“By doom of battle?” friend, I answer no.
Our fathers were too wise to think of war;
They knew the woodlands were not quickly past:
They might have met with many an ugly scar—
Lost many a foretop—and been beat at last.
But Rum, assisted by his son, Disease,
Perform'd the business with surprising ease.
They knew the woodlands were not quickly past:
They might have met with many an ugly scar—
Lost many a foretop—and been beat at last.
But Rum, assisted by his son, Disease,
Perform'd the business with surprising ease.
And would our western brethren be less proud, or,
In other words, throw by their gun and drum—
For ducks and squirrels, save their lead and powder,
And send the tawny rogues some pipes of rum—
I dare predict, they all would gladly suck it;
And ev'ry mother's son soon kick the bucket.
In other words, throw by their gun and drum—
For ducks and squirrels, save their lead and powder,
And send the tawny rogues some pipes of rum—
I dare predict, they all would gladly suck it;
And ev'ry mother's son soon kick the bucket.
But lo! the ingratitude of Adam's race!
Tho' all these clever things to Rum we owe—
Gallons of ink are squirted in his face;
And his bruis'd back is bang'd with many a blow;
Some hounds of note have rung his funeral knell,
And ev'ry puppy joins the gen'ral yell.
Tho' all these clever things to Rum we owe—
Gallons of ink are squirted in his face;
And his bruis'd back is bang'd with many a blow;
Some hounds of note have rung his funeral knell,
And ev'ry puppy joins the gen'ral yell.
So have I seen (the smile is fine—
And wonderfully pat—tho' rather old)
When rising Phœbus shot his rays benign,
A flock of sheep come skipping from the fold;
Some restless sheep cries baa: and all the throng,
Ewes, rams, lambs, wethers, bellowing pour along,
And wonderfully pat—tho' rather old)
When rising Phœbus shot his rays benign,
A flock of sheep come skipping from the fold;
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Ewes, rams, lambs, wethers, bellowing pour along,
But fear not, Rum, tho' fiercely they assail,
And none but I, the bard, thy cause defend,
Think not thy foes—tho' num'rous—shall prevail,
Thy pow'r diminish, or thy being end:
Tho' spurn'd from table, and the public eye,
In the snug closet safely shalt thou lie.
And none but I, the bard, thy cause defend,
Think not thy foes—tho' num'rous—shall prevail,
Thy pow'r diminish, or thy being end:
Tho' spurn'd from table, and the public eye,
In the snug closet safely shalt thou lie.
And oft, when Sol's proud chariot quits the sky,
And humbler Cynthia mounts her one-horse chair,
To that snug closet shall thy vot'ry fly;
And, rapt in darkness, keep his orgies there;
Lift the full bottle, joyous, to his head,
Then, great as Cæsar, reel sublime to bed.
And humbler Cynthia mounts her one-horse chair,
To that snug closet shall thy vot'ry fly;
And, rapt in darkness, keep his orgies there;
Lift the full bottle, joyous, to his head,
Then, great as Cæsar, reel sublime to bed.
Burlington, Dec. 7th, 1789.
| American poems, selected and original | |